


Emancipation

by kronette



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Rating: PG13, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John had never gone to Missouri Mosely to learn the truth? How that slight twist turned Dean’s life completely around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dean's Story, As Told By Dean

**Author's Note:**

> The story begins in 1997 in Hastings, Nebraska, at the Adams Central High School graduation ceremony.

“Dean Winchester.”

Dean’s heart thrummed in his chest as he jogged up the short steps of the podium, accepting his high school diploma from the principal. Sparse but loud screaming rang in his ears as he shook the principal’s hand and walked to the other end of the podium.

He stopped at the steps and squinted against the sun’s glare until he spotted the three sets of flailing arms. He grinned widely at his just-turned fourteen year old brother, gangly arms and big hands waving to catch his attention. Sammy’s girlfriend, Bekka, stood beside him, nearly dwarfed by Sammy’s new height. Dean’s eyes slipped quickly from Bekka to Heather, his expression softening as they locked gazes. Seeing Heather mouth, ”I love you,” clenched his stomach and set his heart racing.

Despite his reluctance to discuss his past, his family, what his father did, and especially his father, _period_ – Heather loved him. Graduating a year ahead of him, she claimed to love Dean enough to suffer through the horrors of returning to high school, if only for his graduation ceremony. If only for him.

The night before, and the nights before that, Dean had whispered promises to her, promises he had no business making. She’d been his world outside of the hunt, outside of John Winchester, for almost two years. She wasn’t just an escape from the life that was suffocating him. Promises made in the dark were easily broken, but with the breeze twisting the robe around his legs – he swore he’d find a way. He would stay with her. Stay, as in never leave. Stay, as in marry her.

He mouthed, “I love you,” back to her, then stepped off the podium to return to his seat.  Just a few minutes more and he was through with high school. Wouldn’t Dad be proud?

He snorted as his face twisted with disgust. Like John Winchester cared about anything other than stuff that went bump in the night and his friends Jim, Jack and Jose. It was only the State’s continued visits to the house they rented that allowed Dean to stay at Adam’s Central for nearly two years. Truancy was apparently a bigger deal here than in Durant, Oklahoma; the last place the Winchester’s called home. At least this time they used their real names, so his diploma would actually say “Dean Winchester” and not some stupid made-up name his dad came up with. Dean was tired of running.

Dean folded his arms and tilted his head back, sighing as he closed his eyes and let his mind wander. His plans for the future didn’t involve ghosts and freaks and monsters. He loved music – nearly as much as he loved Heather – and wanted to be a part of making those sounds. He tried a few instruments through the years, and he finally had to admit that he totally sucked. Producing records, however – that had potential. He’d still get to work with the bands, creating sound, giving back what he’d gotten while sitting in the passenger seat of the old Chevy Dad drove.

As much as he hated the underhanded ways Dad taught them to “make” money, he’d shamelessly mailed whatever he could scrape together to a PO box he had set up back in their home town of Lawrence, Kansas. From the money he saved from picking pockets when he was little, to the hard cash he won at hustled pool and darts, he kept a little for himself. Dad either didn’t know or didn’t care about any odd jobs he did for their neighbors after school, which earned him some legitimate cash. That, he mailed with a smile on his face. He didn’t know how much was stuffed inside that little box, but he was confident it would be enough for at least the first year of college.

In addition to that, he had a couple hundred stashed in the lining of his boot, to get him to Lawrence. After that, he’d apply to colleges and see where life took him – him and Heather.

He jerked in his seat as a booming voice announced, “Congratulations to the Class of 1997!”

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Dean was bursting with happiness as Heather drove them back to the Winchester’s rented house. Once in the driveway, they all piled out of her tiny Escort, laughing and teasing each other as they rounded up the front walk.

At dinner the night before, John had gruffly ordered both sons to catch as much sleep as possible, as they were going after some displaced spirits the next night and needed to be sharp. They’d both solemnly agreed, though Dean couldn’t stop a spark of hope as John continued telling them he’d be restocking supplies most of the day, and wouldn’t see them until near sunset. It was always better when John Winchester didn’t know what his boys were up to.

Dean laughed as he twirled his keychain on his index finger; _Dad wasn’t home_. They had the house to themselves and it might be the only time that Dean could show Heather his room; show her an honest view of his life. Dean’s laughter bubbled over as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, wrinkling his nose at the stench of stale liquor he could never quite get rid of.

“Where in the hell have you been?” John’s booming voice demanded from the living room.

Dean whirled to face the sound, noticing the unsteady way Dad got up from the couch. Son of a _bitch_. Dean hadn’t seen the car out front. How stupid was he, to think he could get away with having friends over like a normal person?

He couldn’t look at Heather, just kept his eyes on John’s. He would count himself lucky if he could get the girls out of there before the screaming started. “Graduation, sir,” Dean replied quietly, as though it wasn’t obvious by the gown he still wore. “It was this afternoon.”

“So you thought you’d have a party with the old man gone?” John snorted, glaring at the two girls. “Are they even legal?”

“These are our girlfriends,” Dean ground out between clenched teeth, feeling heat burn his cheeks. “We just wanted to show them the house, but they can’t stay. Can you?” he asked as he turned, sending Heather a pleading look. Begging her to understand. Pleading with her to go, no questions asked. To not tempt fate or John Winchester when he was on a tirade.

Heather nodded slightly, then her lips formed, “Love you,” again. He let all the gratitude he felt shine through his gaze while still tense about the upcoming fight, and then she dragged Sammy’s girl through the door, away from them, to safety.

There were several reasons why John hadn’t known that they had girlfriends. One, the fact that they hunted ghosts. Two, that Dad had a habit of drinking himself to sleep now and then, and neither brother wanted to bring a girl home to find their dad passed out on the couch. Lastly, but the most damning, was that John didn’t care about anything other than finding the thing that killed their mother. John only tolerated them going to school because state laws required them to go. Wasting time on a girl was considered sacrilege.

Not sparing a glance at Sammy, Dean turned to meet John’s gaze steadily, though inside he was tense as a wire. John crowded into Dean’s space, but he was used to this type of test; he held his ground and continued to meet John’s eyes.

“I woke up and you were both gone. You _know_ we have a hunt tonight. You know better than to waste sleeping hours on meaningless shit!”

It was a variation of every argument he and John had had the past few years. Nothing Dean did lately was good enough in John’s eyes, and this was just one more failure. “It was graduation,” he repeated, clutching his cap in a sweaty hand.

“You get the diploma whether you attend their overblown ritual or not,” John sneered, tearing the mortarboard from Dean’s hand and tossing it into the corner of the living room.

_Fuck_. He could see the rage building in John’s eyes, could sense the fight itching under John’s skin. Dean stood as tall as he could, which was just a shade shorter than John, gathering his center, pushing aside everything but calm. Then he did something so incredibly idiotic, he was surprised he wasn’t struck down by lightning: he lied outright to his father. “It’s the last thing I ever have to do with school. It’s done. Over.”

He concentrated on breathing evenly as the fire left John’s eyes, as the fight died down. He was still wary, as very few of their fights ended on such a quiet note. Doors were usually slammed and the occasional bottle crashed into walls, but this meek standing down was new.

It scared the shit out of Dean. He tried to keep up with the rules of their ‘games’, but John kept changing the rules. And sometimes, he changed the game in mid-play, leaving Dean with no choice but to concede defeat. Drill Sergeant John Winchester didn’t accept anything other than concession. 

Dean lowered his gaze, intending to walk past John on the way to his room to change, when he felt the sleeve of his gown catch the slightest bit on John’s arm. Barely anything, really, but Dean had been _sure_ he had plenty of room. You always made sure to stay out of arm’s reach of John when passing.

John had deliberately moved, providing the opening gambit. That split second of _oh, shit_ was all Dean had before a fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side and causing him to stumble. Tears pricked his eyes at the burst of pain, but he clenched his jaw and staggered upright, chin lifted defiantly.

“You lying piece of shit,” John hissed as he kept his heavy gaze on Dean. “You think you’re going to leave this family? You think you’re going to run off to _college_?” he sneered, making higher education sound like a curse.

Dean flexed his jaw but didn’t touch it; didn’t show weakness. His eyes were hard as he stared at John. “You’ve known for years that I want to do something else with my life,” he stated quietly, heart thundering in his chest. God, he was pushing it, and something in him thrilled at the idea. He was used to slaps and taps to keep him in line, but nothing like the roundhouse that nearly tossed him on his ass. Something had shifted between them; changed, and Dean didn’t know yet whether it was a good thing.

The gleam in John’s eyes definitely didn’t bode well for him and Dean’s stomach dropped as something icy slid down his spine. That was a knowing look.

“PO Box 268452,“ John said, all sugar and menace, and everything clicked into place. John _knew_. He knew about Dean’s plans – the money – leaving. “Nice, tidy sum you had there, Dean. I bet it could have covered at least two, maybe three semesters of a piss-poor college.”

_No_. Something inside Dean died just then and he could barely see through blurry eyes, but he just knew John was gloating. Just _knew_ he was taking pleasure in bringing his son down. His grades wouldn't be good enough for a scholarship, and he didn’t have time for sports, so cash was the only way to pay for school. Without that, Dean was helpless. Trapped. And he felt it, tightening his chest, stealing his breath, his future with Heather fading like morning fog.

His future, his present, were binding him like steel bands. He was so choked he couldn’t even speak, just shook with rage as he stared at the man before him, no more a father than any stranger on the street, and hated him. Hated him with everything he possessed.

John’s glance slid away from him to the dining area and Dean’s eyes followed, realization dawning over him in horror. An assortment of guns and knives, a police scanner, ammo and a mess of unmarked boxes were stacked on the table – far more than he’d ever seen at one time. His money. _His money_ bought that shit. His _future_.

John’s mocked, “It’s amazing what $6,000 can buy these days,” finalized it.

Hurt, betrayed and seething with rage, Dean charged blindly, hissing, “ _Fuck_ _you_ ,” before launching his attack.

It was over before it began. Bodies twisted quickly and left John holding Dean with one forearm around his neck, pushing his chin up to put pressure on his windpipe. Dean drew in ragged gasps as he struggled to break John’s grip. Then John’s other arm crushed against his chest, fighting to contain his wildly flailing arms and fists. By damn, he was not going to go down without a fight. John wouldn’t win this time. He was stronger than this --

“Dad…” Sammy croaked.

He’d barely thought of Sammy, so caught up in his own rage. Now, Sammy was staring at them in horror – no, staring at _John_ in horror, and Dean stopped his wild struggles to focus on his little brother.

Stale breath drifted past his ear and he cringed away from it, but the words stilled him more than death ever would. “I thought you had more sense than that, you selfish prick. What about Sammy?”

His agonized gaze met Sammy’s, worry and fear darkening Sammy’s eyes to almost black. He could sense Sammy’s worry when he talked about going away to college, even though Sammy never said anything. Sure, his brother would have to endure the stupid quest of John’s for a few more years, then he could leave, too. It was only a few years; Sammy could survive it.

But then John’s slick voice continued, “What happens when you go away, Dean? It’s just me and Sammy out there against all that evil. Are you going to leave Sammy to defend himself? Who’s going to watch his back when you’re gone?”

The implication that John would _let_ something attack Sammy hung thick in the air, and Sammy’s stunned expression probably matched what was on Dean’s face. _No_ , the sick fuck. John wasn’t going to use Sammy against him. He _wasn’t_. He struggled a bit more, trying to choke out a, “No,” but John tightened his grip and Dean wheezed on a breath. He was starting to see spots dance at the edge of his vision.

That’s when he realized he couldn’t win. No matter what he did, Sammy would always be used against him, and he didn’t doubt John could – would – use him against Sammy. In his own twisted way, John was ensuring he’d have two perfect soldiers to do his bidding, because neither one of them would ever turn against the other. It was them against John, and until – if – they could support themselves, they were at his mercy.

Darkness was closing in on Dean, his breathing deep and heart pounding in his throat, when he just – stopped. He went limp in John’s arms, letting his weight drop, acquiescing. John squeezed once more in a mockery of a hug, too tight, crushing out what little oxygen Dean still had in his lungs, before shoving him away.

He fell into Sammy’s arms, taking deep, ragged breaths, and tried not to look into Sammy’s eyes. He failed miserably – just as he stood, they locked gazes.

Deep-rooted pain etched itself across Sammy’s features. A pained, “No, Dean,” was hissed, but the obvious, “Not for me,” was bitten back before it could be voiced.

Dean straightened, not even attempting a brave smile, just settled on a grimace as he turned and stared at John, all defiance gone. “Yes, sir,” he stated meekly, not even caring what he was agreeing to.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

He broke up with Heather the next day, unable to give her a satisfactory answer as to why. The simple act of leaving town ensured he’d never see her again, and his chest ached as he tucked the few pictures he had of them into his duffle. His throat itched as the car passed by Adams Central High School, but he remained stoic as they continued to Hastings’ outskirts and hit the open road.

The threat of harm to his little brother, their lack of money and lack of options left him only one recourse: a life beside John on a fool’s journey. He bit back his tears, swallowed what was left of his pride and stamped down on his feelings until nothing remained but what was necessary for the hunt: instinct and survival and skill.

Guns became extensions of his arms. The crossbow melded with his bones. His knowledge of evil, strange things equaled John’s. He became the ‘yes’ man to everything John asked of him – And it still wasn’t good enough.

He came to a point where he honestly thought of letting some ghost possess him, or letting a creature get in a killing blow. It was better than hearing a grunt of disapproval at a missed target, after dozens hitting square and true. It had to be better than the berating that came after a botched house cleansing. It couldn’t be worse than the hard squeeze to the back of his neck, a warning hissed, if he dared to voice an opinion.

He watched what had become of his life trickle by at the pace of the eroding mountains they traveled through, and saw no end to it. The only thing holding him to this life was Sammy and the threat that still rang in his ears.

But as Sammy passed age fifteen and passed Dean in height, something in his little brother changed. He openly defied John. It was _Sam_ , not Sammy. _No_ , he wouldn’t learn bow hunting. _No_ , he didn’t want to practice with a 9mm. _No_ ,he didn’t feel that learning Latin was worth his time.

To Dean’s astonishment and wariness, John let him get away with it. Sure, Sam earned a cuff or two, but nothing like the thwacks and slaps that Dean had suffered. Nothing like the pain of a left hook landing on his jaw. Nothing like dreams of college and a girl vanishing in the blink of an eye. Sam got yelled at, just as much as Dean had at that age, but it was tempered and damned if Dean could figure out why.

One night, when John was definitely out of the house, he hissed at Sam, “Didn’t you learn anything from my sterling attempt at defying him?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” he said simply, but that wasn’t an answer at all. It was a dare, and Dean grew more wary of his little brother’s ability to tempt fate and one John Winchester.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The gradual knowledge that Sam’s behavior was tolerated, even accepted, finally hit the saturation point.

Sam, age seventeen and now with at least four inches on John, turned and walked away.

That was it: Sam just walked away. 

Dean had a deep wound on his shoulder from where the winged-fanged-whatever the hell thing had gouged him. It was bleeding steadily, his arm hanging limp at his side, gun lying spent at his feet. He was still breathing heavily from the attack, surprised by the strength of the creature and unprepared to handle the viciousness of the thing.

John was to his left, staring after Sam’s retreating back. A machete hung from John’s right hand, black ooze that had been the creature’s blood dripping onto the ground.

The gun that Sam had carried was tossed somewhere in the tall grass, clip still full.

Sam’s words echoed in the abrupt stillness of the post-fight: “Fuck this shit. You can die for all I care, going after things like this, but I’m outta here.”

John still hadn’t said a word or gone after Sam.

Dean stomach heaved as pain overwhelmed him, adrenaline giving way to torn flesh. Tears leaked from his eyes as he crumbled to the ground, awash in _agony_ and _hurt_ and _betrayed by my own brother_.  

He didn’t feel John’s arms hauling him to the car.

He didn’t notice the ER room as his arm was stitched up.

He didn’t notice the burn of alcohol as John all but poured it down his throat: the Winchester version of pain medicine.

He didn’t notice the scratchiness of hotel sheets.

He didn’t notice almost three weeks going by without a word spoken.

When he surfaced, it was to a mostly-healed shoulder, full functionality returned. He flexed his fingers and turned his wrist, only feeling stiffness from disuse. He saw something hurtling toward him and caught it by reflex, only fumbled it slightly. His fingers curled around the handle of the Glock and his fingers slipped into place naturally.

He heard a familiar grunt from the single chair in the hotel room.

“Leaving in an hour,” followed the grunt, as John pushed himself to his feet and left the hotel room.

Silence pounded down on him, a stark reminder that he was alone. He didn’t know if he’d ever see Sam again and couldn’t be sure that he’d want to. Sam’s betrayal cut deep, deeper than the slash that nearly took the usage from his arm. Dean had stayed with John for _his ass_ , and the ungrateful bastard had up and left him.

He sure as hell wasn’t going to stay with John when there was nothing left to lose. With Sam God knew where, Dean didn’t have that threat over his head anymore. Feeling something inside his chest loosen, he struggled to his feet and made his way carefully to the bathroom. He luxuriated in the hot water loosening his stiff muscles, not bothering to watch the time. Even if John forced his hand, Dean had noticed the sway to John’s step as the other man weaved toward the door. Not surprising, John was drunk or had drank enough to be well on his way. It was a familiar sight and while it usually turned Dean’s stomach, all he could see now was opportunity. Dean’s sobriety wouldn’t be his only advantage: John was slower nowadays, thinking too much. Dean moved on instinct, letting split second decisions drive his actions. He would have speed and power behind him if John tried anything. If John was even there when he was finished.

He listened for sounds from the other room as he dried off, but couldn’t detect anything. He bunched the t-shirt and shorts from the floor and left the bathroom, freezing mid-step at a familiar presence in the room.

Blinding rage like he hadn’t felt in years threatened to overwhelm him. “Fuck off,” he snarled as he walked past Sam. Why the hell was Sam still here? How had he walked away – in the middle of a fight – and still be in one piece? Why was John lenient with Sam, but rode _his_ ass for the slightest misstep?

“We’re leaving,” Sam stated, as if it weren’t obvious.

Sam’s presence didn’t change his mind; he couldn’t live like this anymore. Anger fueled his actions, tossing dirty clothes into one duffel and retrieving clean ones from another. “Yeah, I heard John,” he snapped. He dressed stiffly but efficiently, trying his best to ignore Sam, but his brother was obstinate.

A hand too big for Sam’s body clamped around Dean’s bicep, halting further movement. Dean glared up at his younger brother, annoyed that Sam was taller than him, annoyed that Sam could get away with things he never would have dared.

Sam’s pleading look used to work on him, but no more. He steeled himself even as Sam’s tone begged him to listen. “No, Dean, I mean _we’re leaving_. You and me. Dad can’t use us against each other if we’re both gone.”

He jerked his arm out of Sam’s grip and took a step back. “You _already fucking left_. You left me and Dad to fight that thing without you. You left me _bleeding_. If it weren’t for Dad, I might not have full use of my arm.”

“It’s Dad’s fault we were out there in the first place!” Sam defended himself. “That thing would never have hurt you if we weren’t there.”

He got right in Sam’s face, shoving his little brother back a step. “No, you don’t get to turn this on Dad. I blame _you_. You’re the one who didn’t do his job. You’re the one to blame.”

“How can you defend him? He hates us, Dean. He controls us, tries to make us just like him.”

His lips curled in a sneer. “No, he controls _me_. He lets _you_ walk all over him. And don’t you fucking try to deny it,” he stopped the obvious protest that Sam was about to launch. “You’ve pushed every button he has and nothing happens to you. I miss one shot, say one wrong word and I get chewed out. You have absolutely no right to be self-righteous about this.”

They were both breathing heavily, air thick with tension, when they spun at the sound of the door opening.

John entered, sending them both menacing glares. “I said an hour. Let’s move.”

Still enraged, Dean spat out, “Why is he still here? His inaction could have gotten me killed.”

John didn’t stop his forward momentum, didn’t even look at Sam. “We need him, Dean.”

“Like hell we do,” he snarled, adrenaline making him strong and maybe just a little bit crazy. “He’s lazy. He never listens to orders. He’s botched two exorcisms because he can’t pronounce Latin correctly and you’ve never said a word to him. Why? What’s he got on you, huh, _Dad_?”

He saw the flicker in John’s eyes before the punch could make a full swing. Dean blocked it effortlessly, then swiftly countered with a punch to the solar plexus, dropping John’s head enough to knee him in the nose. It was dirty fighting, the kind John loved to teach, and Dean felt satisfaction when he saw the blood leaking between John’s fingers pressed to his nose.

“Dean, what the hell are you doing?” Sam cried.

Dean rounded on him, catching Sam’s aborted move to reach out to him. “Touch me and I’ll kill you,” he hissed, stepping around Sam and grabbing his duffel. He still had the money in his boot, now well over a thousand dollars, that should get him far enough away to stop John from tracking him.

He walked past John, resisting the urge to give him a swift kick. “Try to find me, old man, and they’ll never find what’s left of you,” he threatened as he opened the door and left for his new life.


	2. On My Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's on his own, but life without John isn't exactly what he pictured.

Dean ran out of money a lot sooner than he thought he would. The problem with using credit card scams and fake IDs was that you began to rely on it. He had no intention of using his real identity to get a job, but he wasn’t as skilled at copying IDs as John was. He also couldn’t go to any of John’s contacts for help. Braving the back streets of Houston, he found someone who would make a real identity for him, full paperwork included, but it would cost him everything he had. Not seeing any other options, he handed over his savings and fought to keep the bile from rising in his throat.

It was the scariest move he had ever made. He had a fresh, new identity, but no prospects for a job or a place to stay. “Gary Smithton” was literally a newborn, heaved into the world with only his training to support him. And there wasn’t much call for ghost hunters that paid well. Or paid at all.

Within a week, he ended up at a homeless shelter, too hungry to be proud. He accepted what they gave gratefully. It was summer, so he didn’t have to worry about freezing out on the streets, but he couldn’t stay alert 24/7. He needed rest, and the shelter gave it to him. He didn’t relax fully, but enough that the tension left his shoulders and he took his first deep breath in weeks. 

Through the shelter, he learned of several job openings in the warehouse district. Hauling crates around wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work. He stayed at the shelter until he had a bit of money saved, then got an apartment. It was in a shitty part of town and barely bigger than the mattress on the floor, but he paid the weekly rent with money he legitimately earned and a swell of pride filled his chest whenever he stepped inside. 

He spent the next few months concentrating on little else but work and survival. He made enough to pay the rent and eat two decent meals a day. He kept a low profile, even refusing after-work drinks with the guys. It was lonely, but it was his life. Never mind that freedom didn’t taste all that sweet or smell that great. It was a lot like living with John Winchester, actually. Constantly looking over his shoulder, tensed for action, seeing monsters in every shadowy corner. He didn’t know if the fear of discovery would ever truly leave him or be a constant thrum under his skin. 

It took awhile for him to learn about things like rental agreements, tax forms and credit history, as they were never part of his life before. Unwilling to admit his ignorance, he found the county library and spent his free hours pouring over textbooks. He may not have had the best grades in school, but he had a quick mind and the ability to see the overall picture amid the details. From simple textbooks he moved to more complex teachings, from astronomy to chemistry, from ancient history to psychology, he revisited familiar places from high school and stretched beyond. 

He staked out a sunny corner of the library for those Saturdays he spent all day inside, and a well-lit alcove for the nights he stayed until closing. He didn’t know how long he’d been going or how much time he spent, until one of the librarians called him over as he was leaving one night. 

“Sir?”

Wary, he turned to her, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Her open expression seemed sincere, and he had no reason not to trust her. “Yeah?” 

“I’ve – we’ve – noticed you’re in here nearly every day, reading practically anything you can pull off the shelves.” She grinned and teased, “We have a bet going that you’re reading through the entire Dewey decimal system.” 

Teasing wasn’t something that baited him, whether done in jest or as a cruel joke. He kept his expression neutral, only giving the librarian a slow blink of acknowledgement. 

She cleared her throat as color tinged her cheeks. Avoiding his gaze, she slid a catalog toward him. “There are adult classes available through the library and the local community college. Classes start every three weeks, lasting for either eight or twelve weeks. In less than a year, you can earn your GED while continuing to work. Or you can get an Associates’ degree, and it’ll only take three months longer than the regular two years.” 

He glanced down at his shabby boots, frayed and faded jeans, and the loose thread on his faded t-shirt and felt heat on his cheeks. He certainly hadn’t expected that when she called him over. Other librarians had flirted with him on occasion and he’d politely refused. But to have an opportunity like this presented to him; the chance to go to school, to continue learning like he’d wanted to all those years ago…it was a pipe dream. He didn’t have that kind of money – college money, to waste. He wasn’t comfortable with his income to move to a better neighborhood, get a cheap car, or even buy nicer clothes. Everything he didn’t spend on necessities, he stashed into his checking account, not trusting that his luck would hold. 

Shame colored his reply, “Um, thanks, but I’m good. ‘Night.” He turned to leave. 

“Wait!” she shouted, drawing the eyes of the remaining patrons, including his. “Please,” she added quietly, her face blushing a darker shade of red. 

He hesitated before returning to the counter, intrigued enough to hear her out. His gaze went immediately to the well-used catalog, the dog-eared corners begging him to riffle through the pages. He kept his hands in his pockets and his eyes down, not looking at her. 

Her tone was sympathetic, but not patronizing. “Adults come here when they want to learn to read. Children sometimes drag their parents or grandparents to one of the reading circles, hoping to get them interested. I’ve encouraged young women with toddlers to take those last few classes to finish their high school education. I can’t give them back what they’ve lost, but I can offer them a different path for their future.”

He wanted to tell her so many things: That he already had his high school diploma. That he practically raised his little brother since he was only five years old. That he’d been surviving on his own for over a year. How he didn’t need help; not like those people. 

Instead, what he heard his voice saying was, “I can’t afford school.” 

“I didn’t mention cost. I only mentioned opportunities,” she chided him softly. “But since you brought it up, some employers offer tuition assistance. There are grant and loan programs available if you meet certain requirements. There are options out there, if you want something bad enough. However, I’m sensing you know most of this already.”

He glanced around, darting his eyes to hers every other pass. “It’s not that…I just …it’s…complicated.” 

“I didn’t ask for reasons, either,” she said kindly as she nudged the catalog closer to him. “Take this home. Read it through. Think about it. However you think you feel, nothing is as unattainable as it seems.” 

Well past sunset, he walked home with the rolled up catalog in his back pocket, alert as always but part of his mind on the odd conversation. 

She hadn’t asked him a thing about himself. Not if he had a job, not if he had a diploma, not even if he could actually read or was just pretending. He had given nothing of himself and she had presented him with a world he hadn’t thought possible in years. He’d been so focused on keeping a low profile that the meagerest of livings seemed enough. 

Shit; he ran away from John because he was ruled by fear, yet fear still ruled his life. Would he hide for the rest of his life? Would he give up full freedom to preserve the little freedom he had now? He didn’t have any proof that John was looking for him, or even cared that he left. When he thought back to when he left, the anger that drove him to leave, he hadn’t planned much beyond getting away from that life. Maybe it was time to develop a plan.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Things happened at a whirlwind pace after that. He kept $50 from his next paycheck to update his wardrobe from the half dozen threadbare t-shirts and two pair of jeans he’d had since leaving John. He got some heavier work boots and a pair of sneakers. He even got a few nice button-down shirts that a lady in the thrift store said had looked good on him. 

With the better-looking and fitting clothes, he started the rounds at construction sites, asking for a job. Construction season would start in a few weeks and he intended on having a better paying job. At his seventh trailer, meeting with the seventh Project Manager, he got an okay to see the Foreman. 

He had a fleeting thought that he should have went with his idea to fake a resume, but within seconds of meeting Dan, he knew he’d never be able to pull one over on the man. At 240 lbs. of solid muscle, Dan was not a man to fuck with. 

He didn’t even look up as Dean entered the trailer. “You the kid who wants a job?”

Dean felt his spine straightening at that tone, not quite his father’s, but one that demanded respect and usually got it. “Yes, sir.” 

Dan eyed the spreadsheets on his desk, yet Dean could tell he was being sized up. “You got qualifications?”

Dean rattled off his brief work history with practiced ease. “I drove the forklift at Sanderson’s for six months after working my way up from hand loading and unloading. I’ve fixed roofs and porches, even did a few interior patch jobs, over the past few years. I know how to operate most electric saws, drills, hoists, nailers and sanders, and those that I don’t, I’ll learn quick enough.” 

At that, Dan looked him square in the eye. Dean didn’t so much as flick an eyelash. “What’s your name, son, and how old are you?” 

“Gary Smithton, and I’m twenty-three, sir.” 

A long pause where Dean could count his heartbeats, then Dan announced, “I got an opening second shift, two ‘til ten, six days a week. I’ll start ya at $14 an hour. Be here at 3:30 p.m. on the 22nd to fill out the paperwork. You got problems with any of that, don’t bother showing up.” 

Dean felt his shoulders sag with relief and a grin split his face. He did it! He got the job! “No, sir. I’ll be here, 3:30 p.m. sharp,” he enthused, barely able to stand still. “Thank you.” 

The dour face nearly cracked as Dan’s mouth turned up. “I don’t hire idiots, Gary. You’ve got intelligence in those eyes, you’ve got sensible work boots and you didn’t try to bullshit me. More than half the kids come through that door wouldn’t know which end of a hammer to hold. How far’d you get in school?”

The question threw him, and he settled back down to earth. “I graduated high school in ‘97, but I’m just starting at Northwest College.” His smile faded as Dan frowned. With a flutter in his stomach, afraid of losing a job he hadn’t even started yet, he quickly explained, “I’m starting with one class to see how I balance work and school. If it doesn’t work, I’ll switch to weekend classes. It’ll take longer, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. ” 

“The hell you will,” Dan rumbled. “Dedication like that shows you have strong character. If you work out as well as I think you will, then you won’t have any troubles. I’ve got guys sneaking off to God knows where and when I find ‘em, I fire ‘em. You stay honest with me and we’ll work something out. Understood?” 

It was almost too good to be true. Dean didn’t have that kind of luck, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to question it. “Yes, sir.” 

That odd-looking smile cracked Dan’s face again, and Dean took the offered hand in a firm shake. “Welcome aboard, Gary.” 

=-=-=-=-=-=

With more money coming in, Dean didn’t feel as caged in as he had. He continued to live in the crappier part of town, not only because he was used to it, but because he truly didn’t need more than somewhere to sleep and shower. Instead, he tucked as much as he could into his savings to pay for his next class. 

One Saturday, as he walked back from checking in at the shelter, he had the overwhelming urge to stop at the thrift store. Unsure what had driven him there, he walked the aisles, coming up short when he spotted the old Sears stereo. It was a dual tape deck, AM/FM with an actual turntable on top. The speakers had some fraying on the covers, but he plugged her in and they sounded fine. Fearful the price would be more than he was willing to pay, he was shocked that it was marked at $10. He immediately rolled it to the counter and asked that they hold it for him while he went in search of tapes or records. He was almost dizzy as he stared at the stack the lady showed him: dozens and dozens of outdated, classic music just piled up, waiting for him to take it home. He chose carefully, not wanting to blow his food money on needless things, but this was music. 

He realized his predicament of getting the stereo, records and tapes back to his apartment too late and the checkout lady just grinned at him. “Honey, we’ll hold this for you. You can come back with a truck or something to haul it home.” 

He swallowed hard. “I don’t have a car,” he admitted. “Can I leave the speakers and records here and come back for them later today?” 

Her grin widened. “Sure you can, honey. Just give me your information and I’ll make a big note for ‘em.” 

“Thank you,” he gushed, heart thudding in his chest as he carried the stereo the whole six blocks back to his apartment. Barely sweating, he headed immediately back out to the thrift store, getting the speakers this time. His third trip was completed with the records and tapes, then he spent an hour fiddling with the equalizers until the sound came through just perfect. 

He blissed out on music the rest of Saturday through to Sunday evening, eyes closed as he lay in bed, letting it wash over him. He hit up several other thrift stores over the next few weeks, searching out other tapes and records. When he flipped through a stack of tapes and saw the cover of Master of Puppets, his heart leapt to his throat as his thoughts turned to Heather so fast he had to sit down or risk falling down. 

He paid for the tape and blindly made his way back home, too stunned to do anything but think of Heather. Had it really been seven years? It was all a blur to him; the hunts and hotels and fights all blended together into one bad memory. What was she doing, now? Was she still in Hastings? God, could he actually – actually call her? Would she even speak to him? 

He fell to his bed, holding the tape loosely in his hand as he stared unblinking at the floor. Here he was, 24 years old, and anonymous to the world. He wanted someone to see him, someone who understood. Someone who understood him. And she had. 

He was due for a check-in at the shelter later that week. He’d see what sort of resources they had. If they could look her up for him. To see her again, to reclaim his life for himself, it would be worth any cost.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

A week shy of his twenty-fifth birthday, Dean stepped off the bus in Hastings. Winter chilled the air, but the streets were clear of snow. It didn’t look like fresh snow had touched ground in at least a week, the few dirty piles he saw were melting in the cold sunlight. 

It took him twenty minutes to walk to Heather’s house – her parent’s house. It was strange taking those same steps up the sidewalk, raising his hand to knock on the same door. It was like a time warp, and though he was older, he felt incredibly young when Mrs. Rolsen opened the door. 

“Um, hi,” he began with a wavering voice. He cleared his throat. “I – I was wondering if Heather was home. If I could talk to her.” 

Mrs. Rolsen eyed him up and down, making him want to squirm. “Dean. Dean Winchester,” she stated flatly, taking him by surprise. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered swiftly. After all the time he’d spent there, it wasn’t a wonder she’d still recognize him. It still – surprised him, though. He knew he didn’t look - or feel - like the 17 year old fool-in-love he’d been.

“Stay here. I’ll see if Heather wants to see you.” The door was closed quietly but decisively in his face, and he puzzled at the window’s reflective surface. Yes, it’d been a long time, and yes, he’d left without a good reason why, but Heather had always been able to read him. She had to know he wasn’t leaving her. 

The door opened and he sucked in a breath. Dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, a loose sweater and jeans tucked into boots, but most of all, her eyes. Those inquisitive, seductive, knowing hazel eyes stared straight at him, and he fought against the urge to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness. 

“Please,” he choked out, her image blurring as tears filled his eyes. He didn’t know what he was trying to say. 

He didn’t, but she seemed to know anyway, as she placed her hand on his worn jacket and pulled him inside the warmth of her house. “Get inside before you freeze,” she chided him lightly. 

He shivered, but not from cold. Her touch always did that to him, no matter if it was through the jacket and three shirts. He followed blindly as she weaved through the house, calling out, “We’ll be downstairs,” as she opened the door to the basement. 

“Your room still?” he asked, though he knew the answer as soon as the smell, her smell, hit his nostrils. He breathed deeply, feeling something inside settle and calm. 

“A few things changed since you left,” she commented vaguely, “But some things stayed the same.” 

His gaze swept the “front” room, barely pausing over the three closed doors along the back wall. A newer couch had replaced the old lumpy thing she used to have, and a few straight back chairs sat around a round dining table. Some of her clothes were tossed in piles on the couch. His gaze lingered on the toys scattered over the floor and picked out the too-small-for-Heather clothes amidst the piles. 

The calmness that had enveloped him vanished, replaced by a sick knowledge. 

“Dean, sit down. Dean!” 

He landed with a jarring force onto one of the hardback chairs, Heather’s hands still on his shoulders. 

“Breathe, Dean.”

He sucked in a lungful, then another, until his body remembered how on its own. She didn’t just have a life, she had a child, and he had no business here. None at all. He forced himself to his feet. “I’ll go. I should go. I need to go.” 

Her hands on his shoulders forced him down again, and this time, they stayed on his shoulders. He had no choice but to look up at her, look into her eyes. “I shouldn’t be here. You have a life,” he whispered, unable to keep the wistfulness from his tone. He was so stupid to think she’d kept her life on hold for him. How could she, when he didn’t think he’d ever be able to return to her? 

“Dean Winchester, just …sit there, okay?” She pushed against his shoulders as if to make him stay still, then crossed to sit on the couch, facing him. She licked her lips nervously, staring at the floor. “There’s no easy way to say this. I have so many questions for you, and so much to tell you but this should be first. I have a son.” 

His throat tightened as he glanced at the trucks and action figures on the floor. “I didn’t know. I saw the toys, and…I should go,” he babbled, getting to his feet. “You’ve…moved on. I understand. I don’t want to intrude on your life.” 

“Dean, you’re still part of my life,” she said. “Sit back down, please.” 

He swayed on his feet, unsure he wanted to hear what she had to say. If she was with someone else, then he didn’t want to know. He sank into the chair, nervously glancing between her face and the door. 

Her voice washed over him. “He’s going to be six in February.” 

His first thought was so old? She must have had the kid when she was what? Twenty? That was barely a year after he last saw her…

His brain ceased functioning. His heart sped up until he thought it would burst through his chest or race up his throat. Her steady gaze froze him to the spot, but he could feel his mouth opening and closing without uttering a sound. 

Her voice held no malice or contempt toward him, just a sort of fond exasperation. “His name is James. I figured you wouldn’t mind him being named after the greatest singer of all time.”

He blinked and forced out a garbled, “I – how?”

Color rose on her cheeks and she glanced away. “Those nights before you graduated – we weren’t always careful. I knew what we had was special, even when you left.” Tears filled her eyes. “I knew you weren’t coming back, Dean. I had to let you go, but I could have James. I could have that piece of you.” 

The coldness he sensed from Mrs. Rolsen when she recognized him – it made sense now. “Your parents. Your mom. They think I abandoned you after I found out.” 

She let out a tired sigh. “No matter how much I argued with them, they refused to listen. They thought I was ruining my life, when all James ever did was make me happy.” 

“I would never have done that to you!” he cried, rising to his feet. “God, if I’d known, I never would have let him take me away from you.” 

She rose to her feet, hands out as if to stop him from leaving. “I know! Dean, I know. It’s okay,” she murmured.

Her voice calmed him, but he couldn’t stop the roar in his head. If John hadn’t pushed him, or if he hadn’t stood up to John that day, they might have stayed. He might have been there when his son was born. He might have been there for Heather, whatever she needed. 

“You okay?” he choked out, finally allowing his hands to rest on her shoulders, curving down her back, and pulling her to him as he’d wanted to do since she opened the door. 

“I’m good,” she murmured before burying her nose in his neck, fitting there as she always had. He tightened his arms around her, molding their bodies together, and they still fit. His head dropped to her hair, his cheek rubbing against the smoothness of the pulled-back sides. He breathed in her scent and it smelled like home.


	3. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's back in Heather's life for good this time. 
> 
> WARNING: Contains mild m/f sex scene

He stayed in Hastings for only a week before he went back to Houston for his few possessions and to quit his job. Dan was awesome about it; even offered him some names to help him find a job. 

Construction jobs weren’t abundant in the small town, but he had enough skill to keep him comfortable and in a small apartment halfway across town from Heather’s house. 

Heather introduced him to James, and he couldn’t stop staring into the dark green eyes so like his own. James had his mother’s sleek, dark hair and long limbs, and both parents’ sense of adventure. In the four months since Dean had met his son, James had scrapes from where he tripped on the sidewalk, fell up the stairs and skidded across the hardwood floor. 

“I think he needs a haircut,” he observed as James once again tripped over something on the floor. Dean picked it up – a Wolverine figure – and tossed it toward the toy box inside James’ room, narrowly missing Heather. 

“You would deny your son’s future as a headbanger?” Heather scoffed as she tucked James’ clothes into his dresser. 

“I’d rather he see where he’s going,” he remarked dryly, not ducking in time to avoid the tossed shoe. “Ow, son of a—!” 

“Language!” Heather screeched, causing him to wince more at her voice than at the pain in his temple. 

He kept one eye closed and glared at her with the other. “Are you serious?” he retorted. “I’m not the one who taught him ‘fu—‘“

“Okay!” she interrupted quickly, artfully stepping around toys to straddle his legs. She sank down on his lap, arms around his neck. 

His hands settled automatically at her waist, drawing her close until their foreheads touched. Four months he’d been back in her life, and they’d never gone further than this: no kissing; no groping. It wasn’t that he was still trying to charm her parents back into liking him again. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her – some part of him always had, even when he didn’t consciously think of her. No, he respected her and didn’t want to take anything for granted. They didn’t talk about it; it was understood that when she was ready, if she wanted him back in her life that way, she’d let him know. 

He was going cross-eyed staring at her lips. She’d given up the "fuck me" red in favor of some light-colored lip-gloss, but the shine was enough. He watched as those lips parted and had to focus to catch her words. 

“Hey there, big guy,” she murmured appreciatively. 

Her gaze was on his jeans, specifically his crotch. He couldn’t help it; he was a red-blooded male, and he loved her, and his head spun crazily when he was around her. “Sorry,” he muttered, hands tightening on her waist in an effort to get himself under control. It’d been forever since he’d had sex, long before he was on his own, and his hand was only able to offer so much release. 

“I wondered if that libido was still there,” she whispered, trailing a hand around his neck and across his threadbare shirt. 

He groaned at the light touch, pulling his head back to look into her eyes. “Heather –“ 

She kept her voice low as her other hand toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Do you think I go around braless because I enjoy it?” 

His eyes instantly dropped to her chest, where he could see the outline of her nipples standing out against the thin sweater, and the breath caught in his throat. He licked his lips. “Heather, I –“ 

She turned her head away, and before he could panic over that, she called out, “James, why don’t you go ask grandpa to get out the Playstation for you? You can play Spiderman for an hour.” 

James tore out of his room and raced up the stairs yelling, “Grandpa! Mom said I can play Spiderman!” 

“One hour!” She yelled louder, and then a faint, “All right,” drifted down to them. 

Dean gasped as Heather shifted on his lap, drawing herself closer to his body, brushing her nipples against his chest. “Now, why don’t you remind me how good you are with that mouth,” she ordered him softly. 

He could only stare at her, breath speeding up as her words registered in his downstairs brain. He slipped his hands beneath her sweater, fingertips gliding up her skin as he pulled her toward him. 

His eyes were locked on her mouth, lips parted enough that he could see the tip of her tongue between her teeth and he moaned softly. 

The first touch of his mouth to hers was tentative, but with just a shift of his head, he felt her tongue against his lips and he was gone. His thumbs brushed against the sides of her breasts as he pulled her closer, tipping his head back for a better angle.

He parted his lips enough to tease, to drag his tongue across her lower lip, to dip inside and then retreat before she could register his presence. He licked at the corner of her mouth, felt her teeth nip at his tongue. A smile broke across his features and his mouth opened beneath hers, inviting her to play. 

He was nearly derailed by her soft moans against his mouth, but in retaliation, his thumbs stroked the underside of her breasts, coming up to rub against her nipples. Her sharp inhalation spurred him to explore further.

He broke away from her mouth and lifted her sweater in one move. “God,” he breathed before nuzzling between her breasts, mouthing along one swell to flick the tip of his tongue against the nipple.

He held her tight as she bucked against him. “Dean,” she gasped as her fingers dug into his shoulders. While his tongue played with that nipple, his right hand cupped and held the other, pinching the nub with his fingernails, drawing a gorgeous, throaty moan from her. 

He closed his teeth gently around the nipple and drew back, earning him another moan. He alternated teeth and hand, tongue and fingernail, until the familiar hitch in her breathing signaled her release. He dug the heel of his hand against the zipper of her jeans. Her chest rose in warning, and before her sharp cry could escape, he quickly muffled it with his mouth over hers. 

“Holy fucking shit,” she breathed, staring at him in wonder. “I’d ask where you learned that, but then I’d have to kill the woman who taught it you.” 

He hid a smirk against her neck, humming along the bared skin. His teeth skimmed along her collarbone, tongue darting out to the hollow at the base of her throat before working his way up the other side of her neck. He nibbled on her earlobe, something that he knew she hated, but instead of the expected shove, he felt her shudder against him. 

“And I’ll kill whoever got you turned on by that,” he muttered, a stab of jealousy hitting him low in the gut, cooling some of his lust. 

She bit his earlobe in kind and he hissed at the sting. “Aren’t you turned on by that?” she whispered in his ear, and he all but choked as her hand gripped him through his jeans. It’d been so long since anyone else had touched him…

He pushed her off his lap and stood on shaky legs, holding onto the chair for support.

“Dean, what’s wrong?” she asked, confusion and hurt creeping into her tone. 

Tasting her again, wanting her again, it was too much. He wanted it all, and that scared him to no end. The last time he wanted so badly, it had all been taken from him. 

When he looked up, she had put her sweater back on and folded her arms across her chest. Her defensive posture screamed at him, demanding he explain himself. He took a couple of breaths to steady himself, but it did little good. 

“I want you,” he began, voice husky and low with the truth of his words. “I want to fuck you against that wall so hard, bury myself so deep that we become one person. I could come just from the taste of your skin; the scent of your hair. I could spend days just tracing my fingers over every inch of you and never notice time passing.” 

Their eyes locked, and he could see how much this was affecting her. She was trembling and the arms that were crossed in defiance now looked like they were holding her together. “After graduation,” he admitted, “I wasn’t going to leave. I was going to stay. For you. I was going to ask you…I wanted us…” He drew all his strength, all his conviction, and said the two words he’d held inside for years. “Marry me.” 

He voice was barely a breath. “What?” 

“I was going to ask you to marry me,” he repeated, his voice rising in strength. “I still feel it, Heather. It hasn’t gone away.” He took in her shocked, wary expression and his hope fell. “I’m not asking you now.” 

“What?” she repeated, blinking as if coming out of a daze. 

“That wasn’t a proposal,” he lied smoothly, though he inwardly cringed as some of his hurt bled through his tone. “I was just trying to explain why,” he indicated the space between them. “I want to make sure this is the right thing for both of us, the right thing for James. I can’t take this up with you casually, Heather. I want more than that. I have to make sure you want that, too. This isn’t just about us. I won’t hurt James for the world.” His voice dropped to quiet conviction, “And if I touch you again, I won’t be able to stop.” 

She looked him over for a long time, worrying her lip between her teeth. An eternity later, she nodded. “Okay,” she breathed, and nodded again. “Okay. We’ll both take time to think things through, see how we feel in a few weeks.” 

It wasn’t an option given to him, but more an order. She wasn’t just his girl or even a woman – she was a mother, and her responsibility to her – their – son had to take priority over any other relationship in her life. He understood that. “Can I still come by and see James?” he asked timidly. 

She looked startled at his question. “Yes,” she answered quickly. “No matter what, I want you in his life. I would never deny you that.” 

He licked his lips and whispered, “Thanks”. 

Her voice took on a steely tone. “I have one condition, though. You have to tell me what happened the day you left. I’ve tried to be patient, giving you time to tell me on your own, but I have to know, Dean.” Her voice dropped to gentle lightness as she added softly, “What happened after Bekka and I left your house?”

He swallowed again, but for a different reason. The lump in his throat wouldn’t go away. “Graduation is supposed to make your dad proud,” he began, not knowing where it was coming from, but once started, it was like he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. 

“For John, graduation meant that the State wouldn’t hound him about keeping me in school any more. He was free to take off, dragging us along. Sam—“ he choked on the word, not having thought of his brother in years, “Sam was enrolled wherever we ended up, but only for a few weeks, sometimes a month. It was easier with only one kid, I guess. 

“I was going to leave after graduation. I had money, I had a plan. I was going to marry you and go to college. I wanted to study music production. I had it all planned. I just had to leave. Only John made sure I never would.” He breathed hard as he remembered that day, remembered John’s threats against Sam; remembered the stark terror at leaving Sam in John’s maniacal hands. 

When he didn’t continue, Heather prompted quietly, “Did he threaten you?” 

He shook his head. No, the threat was never directed at him and Heather must have sensed that, because she bit off some colorful curses, then stopped abruptly. The look in her eye shook him; it was defiance and hatred. “Did he ever lay a hand on you or Sammy after that?” 

His jaw flexed with remembered pain. “Once was enough,” he rasped. “I didn’t disobey him for three years.” 

“Fucking shit,” she hissed, standing and pacing. “That fucking asshole. I knew there was more to you not wanting me to meet him, but shit, Dean! Why didn’t you say something?” 

“What could we have done?” he asked plaintively. “I was seventeen. I had to protect Sam. I couldn’t support both of us and I knew John would find us.” He lowered his head, feeling shame heat his cheeks. “I let him control my life.” 

She grabbed his chin, forcing him to look into her eyes. She put all her conviction behind her words: “You were protecting your little brother from a monster. That takes courage.” 

Dozens of excuses and denials flitted through his mind, but none of them dared make it past his lips. Not with her staring at him like that. Her image blurred and then wetness trailed down his cheeks, but she wouldn’t let go of his gaze. 

“How can you stand to look at a..a…?” 

“If the word ‘coward’ comes out of that pretty mouth, I will punch you in the face. Got it?” she challenged him, and he clamped his mouth shut. She nodded and released him, and he hastily wiped his face and avoided her gaze. 

He heard her settle onto the couch again and it was several minutes before either of them spoke. Heather broke first. 

“I always wondered. I remember the bruising on your jaw that day. I had suspicions it was your dad, but you wouldn’t tell me. It nearly killed me, knowing you were hurting so much inside, but you couldn’t tell me. You were protecting me, too, I just knew. And I let you go, knowing that I couldn’t make you stay.” 

Of course she would have known; they knew each other’s skin like it was their own. “I – I had to forget you,” he admitted, meeting her gaze. “It hurt so much to think of what I couldn’t have…it hurt less to forget you. I’m sorry,” he whispered, pleading with her to understand. “I didn’t want to.”

Tears shone in her eyes. “Why’d you come back, Dean? What changed?” 

He laughed, a cold, bitter sound. “Music reminded me of you. I was without it for so long, that the first long stretch I could immerse myself in it, I thought of you. I had to find someone who would remember me. Someone who knew who I was.” 

“You’re a hard guy to forget,” she murmured. 

He shook his head. “I’m too easy to forget. That’s why I had to see you. I needed to find myself again. I’ve been lost for so long.” 

“How long have you been on your own?” 

He shrugged, not really knowing length of time. “I don’t know, honestly. Years.” 

“And what about Sam?” 

“Fuck him,” he spat, startling her. “Sorry,” he immediately apologized. “You don’t know what happened after…after I stayed. I did everything John asked; never questioned anything. Never backtalked. That went on a few years, then Sammy turned fifteen. Shot up tall as me. Started mouthing off to John. Defying orders. Refusing to help. And John let him.” Burning anger churned in his stomach and he snarled, “Why? Why was he lenient with Sam and rode my ass for the same things? I gave up my life for Sam and he got away with everything! Then he – he just stood there as I was attacked, dropped the gun and walked away. I was bleeding and that prick just walked away! That was it. I was done.” 

He didn’t notice Heather’s uneasiness until she spoke, and then he realized his mistake. “What does your family do, Dean?” she asked gently. “You never said, but I always had a feeling it was dangerous. Some of those bruises you’d have weren’t normal bumps into furniture.” 

Fuck, shit and fuck again. Maybe it was time. Maybe he needed to tell her this part of him, too, so she could know all of him. Someone should know all of him, though he expressed his wariness as he told her, “You won’t believe me.” 

“Try me.” 

“When I was almost five years old, Mom died in a fire.” He’d told her this part of the story before, and she nodded as though she remembered. “Something killed her. We don’t know what it is, but John’s been searching for it for twenty years.” 

“What do you mean, something?”

He braced himself and uttered the words that would surely condemn him to a life in the funny farm. “Real evil exists, Heather. John hunts it down and kills it, looking for Mom’s killer. I’ve helped him since I was eleven. I’ve sent ghosts back to hell, cleansed houses of evil spirits, fought things with wings and things with talons. We don’t have names for most of it, but it’s real.” 

He waited for her outburst, or worse, her laughter, but neither came. He dared a look to her face, and she appeared lost in thought. “Heather?” he prodded. “I’m not crazy.” 

“Oh, you’re bugfuck crazy,” she quipped, flapping her hand at him, “But not about this. It would explain a lot of the disappearances you did while we were dating. The cuts and bruises when you came back. You had no idea your family was the talk of the gossips, did you?” He shook his head, baffled, and she continued. “They used to say you were into black magic or something like that. Always out at night, looking half-dead at school. The classic car was hardly a stealth-mobile, Dean. Everyone could hear it rumbling down the street after dark, or early in the morning when you guys got back.” 

“Fuck me,” he muttered. Her laugh startled him. 

“Sorry,” she giggled again. “It’s just – you’re so observant, never missing anything, but you didn’t know?” 

He shook his head, dumbfounded. How had he missed all the gossip? Or was it Heather who kept the gossip at bay? “Must have been you,” he blurted out, silencing her giggles immediately. “I was so lost in you I didn’t hear anything else.” 

She sighed. “Dean…”

“No, I’m sorry,” he interrupted her, shifting on his feet. “I promised to give you space, and I meant it. I’ll just go.” He studied her, the glow on her cheeks, and remembered that he put it there. “You look good with some color on your cheeks,” he remarked, and the color darkened. 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Things went smoother after that. 

Despite his hatred for John, his dad did teach him one good thing: physical training. Dean had been concentrating on mere survival that he let his training lapse. Without fear of food, shelter or theft of his few belongings, he got himself back in shape. Building houses and office parks helped build muscle as well, and he filled out enough that Heather’s eyes darkened when he wore one of his newest shirts. 

Heat flushed his skin and he ached to taste her again, but he was still waiting for a signal from her. The hungry gaze she shot him wasn’t enough, but it was close. He was becoming very familiar with his right hand and cold showers. 

The more time he spent at Heather’s, the closer they became. With spring came outings to the park with James, and while Heather watched their son, he kept one eye on Heather. 

He didn’t try to quell the natural affection he had for James, nor did he play it up. He was growing to love the boy, love his son, and a fierce need to protect him was growing along with that love. He didn’t shower James with gifts, but he talked to him every chance he got, played games (video or board) with him, even took him to the park on days that Heather had to work. Heather’s parents accepted him into their home, as part of their grandson’s life, and Dean slid into the familial lifestyle easier than he should have, considering how he was raised. 

James started kindergarten in late August, and both Heather and Dean went with him. It had been a quick summer, between working and hanging out at Heather’s house. He got a cell phone, not only because he wouldn’t get a landline, but because Heather wanted to list him as an emergency contact for James. A swell of pride mixed with his fear. 

Christmas would be coming around before Dean knew it, and as he sat around the Thanksgiving table, observing his new family, he felt a knot of fear take hold in his chest. He stared at Heather without seeing her, knowing how easily all this could be ripped from him. His own family had been torn apart when he was a little younger than James. Seeing the creatures his family hunted inflict death and destruction on innocent people made him cynical; made him try to protect himself. Now, he was in the middle of everything he ever wanted. That was usually when things went south. 

Movement startled him: Heather getting to her feet, pulling on his arm until he stood, and dragging him outside. 

“Wha--?”

“Shut up and get in the car,” she informed him, shoving him toward the driveway.

He obeyed, more from shock than acceptance, and remained silent as she drove them to his apartment building. He passed over his key when she held out her hand and followed her inside his apartment. Only after the door closed did she ask, “Do you love him?” 

He blinked once, trying to figure out who, then said, “You know I do. He’s my son. He’s a great kid.” 

Her voice was a bit shaky as she asked, “You love me?”

“I never stopped,” he declared softly. 

“Ask me again,” she begged quietly. 

He didn’t hesitate. “Marry me.” 

She didn’t hesitate with her answer: shoving him onto the bed and straddling him. 

They ended up breaking the boxsprings.

They were old.

Luckily, Dean had been saving what he could, with the intent of getting a better place. He didn’t realize he’d need it so soon. 

He found out he didn’t mind. 

They were married the next August, just before James started first grade.


	4. Sam's Story, As Told By Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Winchester, Attorney at Law, had a pretty good life. Until today.

Sam Winchester greeted his secretary warmly as he headed to his office.Being recruited by Valdez & Austerberger, P.C. had been his saving grace last summer. His public defender caseload had nearly burned him out, but he still had the desire to help people. When he was at a loss as to what to do next, the certified letter arrived from V&A.

“Hey, kid,” Dave said as Sam passed, and Sam mock-frowned at him. Sort of mocked, anyway. He wasn’t the youngest Attorney at Law at the firm, but he had the curse of a “baby face,” as his girlfriend, Rachel, liked to tease him. That made him appear younger than his twenty-six years.

“Don’t forget I kick your sagging ass at two-on-two,” Sam called after Dave’s back, waiting for and getting the middle finger in response. They had no fear of unprofessionalism in front of clients, because _no one_ brought in clients this early on a Monday.

Sam took another sip of coffee and checked his watch. Ten minutes until the morning meeting where the caseloads would be handed out and he was itching for his next case. State v. Montague was at deliberation, and Sam was confident of the outcome. He felt the tingling sensation down his spine; the anticipation of a new challenge.

He stepped into his office to deposit his briefcase and settled behind his desk. While he checked his voicemail, his eyes fell to the picture of him and Rachel, with the then barely-a-year-old Allison being held in her mother’s arms. Sam could feel the proud smile stretch his lips. Soon, he was going to make an “honest woman” of Rachel. She’d teased him often enough about it that he suspected it was starting to mean more to her than it had in the past. Seven years together, and he still caught himself staring at Rachel and Allison with wonder. The little girl with the bright green eyes was really _his_ , and Rachel loved him _that much_ to endure a very hard labor and not throw it back in his face or demand he never touch her again.

It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to get married. He’d made a commitment to Rachel long before they decided to have a child. And it wasn’t that he thought a marriage certificate was just a piece of paper. No, the hardest part of asking Rachel to marry him was picking out the ring. None he had looked at so far were just quite _right._

A chime sounded, reminding him of the time, and he retrieved his Blackberry from his briefcase for the meeting.

The buzz in the conference room was deafening and he was immediately on his guard. Something _big_ was going down and he wasn’t in the loop. He sidled up to Andrea, the case manager, and fixed her with his big eyes and wide smile.

“Keep that to yourself,” she warned as she held up a hand, deflecting him. “Whatever it is, I didn’t get the case. Nothing this exciting has ever crossed my desk.”

Undeterred, Sam tried to make his way over to Joe, the other case manager, but Henry called the meeting to order before he could get around the table.

“Sit down before you all run out of air babbling,” Henry scoffed at them, and the other attorneys shuffled into their seats, Sam pulling his back a bit more to accommodate his legs.

“Those who have heard already, keep it to yourselves. This is my show, so I don’t want any usurping.” Henry Romanov, one of the managing partners, set his steely gaze across the table, and every person sat up a bit straighter under that glare.

Sam might have imagined it, but it felt like Henry’s eyes stayed on him a bit longer than the others. He shrugged it off and concentrated on the presentation.

“A call came from the State last night, around two am. Ninety-six counts of credit card fraud – so far.”

Low whistles were quickly stifled, but Sam felt a niggling at the back of his mind.

“Twenty-seven counts of impersonating law officials. Ten counts of impersonating various federal agents. Two counts of impersonating an FBI agent.”

Sam’s stomach churned and a high-pitched sound rang in his ears. A migraine threatened at the edges of his vision, but Henry continued with the charges heedless of his discomfort:

Police and law enforcement paraphernalia, FBI and Homeland Security badges located in the accused’s vehicle.

An arsenal of weapons located in a false trunk.

Evidence of possible ingredients to make a bomb located with the weapons.

And the last, damning thing: trace amounts of blood and other substances discovered on some of the weapons.

Sam could barely breathe. The room was closing in on him, memories assaulting him, but no, it couldn’t be. It _couldn’t_ be.

Apparently, Henry wasn’t done. He cleared his throat and Sam made the effort to look in his direction, though he couldn’t actually see through his tunnel vision.

“The accused has only said one thing and has refused to speak since.” Henry’s gaze was boring into his, and Sam felt locked into position, though everything in him was screaming to run, _now._

“’Get me the lawyer, Sam Winchester.’”

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The fallout was incredible, but all Sam could think of was his father, appearing in his life again after nearly ten years _._ Coworkers were yammering louder with each other and at Sam, demanding answers, asking questions he couldn’t possibly answer, and the crush of wordsandairandcan’tbreathehavetogetout…

“Back off!” he shouted, though his normal forceful tone was edged with hysteria. He felt a hand on his shoulder and jerked away from the touch. He shoved his chair back and stood, imposing with his 6’4” frame to get some room.

He glanced at his coworkers, not understanding their expressions. They looked shocked, presumably at his outburst, but also – confused. What was there to be confused about? His father had asked for him; it wasn’t improbable that John Winchester wouldn’t know his son was a lawyer. After all, the last time Sam saw him, it was to leave for college. His father only had to look in Sam’s last known whereabouts – Stanford – to discover he was a graduate of their law program.

“That’s enough of the circus act for now,” Henry said, his voice brooking no argument. “Andrea and Joe will distribute the rest of the caseload. I’m going to have a private conversation with Sam. Come on, son.”

Sam felt a cold shiver at _son_ , but followed obediently to the plush corner office. The door closed with an ominous ‘click’.

Henry gestured for him to sit, and he all but fell into one of the chairs across from the desk. He kept his gaze on the floor, thoughts still careening wildly through his mind. How had John gotten caught? Why was he in California? _Homeland Security_? What was John looking into that required _that_ level of access? Was he still “hunting”?

Henry pushed a thick file toward Sam and hesitantly, he reached out.

Pulling the file onto his lap, Sam tried to steady himself before opening the file, but nothing could have prepared him for seeing the name _Dean Alexander Winchester._

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

_The sun shone brightly at Dean’s high school graduation, where Sam and both their then-girlfriends had screamed themselves hoarse. Afterwards, they all went back to the house the Winchesters were renting. Sam couldn’t remember any details about the house, but he remembered a laughing Dean entering first._

_“Where in the hell were you?” John demanded as he got up from the couch, the stench of stale liquor permeating the air._

_Everyone stopped dead in their tracks and dread settled in Sam’s stomach._

_“Graduation, Dad,” Dean replied quietly, as though it wasn’t obvious by the gown he still wore. “It was this afternoon.”_

_John glared at the two girls, who shared a look between themselves, then at their respective boyfriends. Bekka gave Sam a pitying glance, then the girls scurried out the door, closing it behind them, leaving the two boys facing their father._

_John wasted no time getting in Dean’s face. “I woke up and you were both gone. You know we have a hunt tonight. You were supposed to be resting!”_

_Dean held his ground, though Sam could see the effort it took his older brother. Even at fourteen, Sam had had his share of fights with dad, but it seemed like nothing Dean did lately was good enough. He also knew the best he could do for Dean now was to become invisible, because distracting John Winchester would only enrage him further._

_“It was graduation,” Dean repeated, his hand clutching his graduation cap in a shaky hand._

_“You get the diploma whether you attend their overblown ritual or not,” John sneered, tearing the cap from Dean’s hand and tossing it into the corner of the living room._

_Sam gaped silently as Dean outright lied to their father. “It’s the last thing I ever have to do with school, Dad. It’s done. Over.”_

_Dean had talked to him for almost a year about the possibility of college. Just a community college, sure, but some formal education past high school, to get him into sound editing. Dean wanted to make records. He’d done research whenever they were sent to libraries for some local folklore, and knew what classes he needed. Just as he was thinking to talk to Dean later, Dean made a fatal mistake._

_John and Dean stared at each other for several more seconds, then Dean pushed their father aside instead of walking around him. It wasn’t a strong push – it barely moved the man – but John saw it as an attack and roundhoused on Dean, catching him in a backhanded fist that snapped Dean’s head to the side. Sam gasped and braved getting between them, offering Dean support. He wanted desperately to scream at their father, but this was Dean’s fight; neither would appreciate his interference. Instead, he held his tongue no matter how much it hurt._

_“You lying piece of shit,” John hissed as he kept his heavy gaze on Dean. “I’ve heard you tell Sammy about your little plans for college. You think I don’t hear everything? Do you think you have_ secrets _from me?”_

_Dean flexed his jaw but didn’t touch it; didn’t show weakness. His eyes were hard as he stared at John. “It’s hardly a secret when you’ve known for years that I want to do something else with my life. Why are you pushing it now?”_

_“I found the post office box,“ John said, all sugar and menace, and then the look he gave Dean, clicked everything into place. All the money Dean managed to save was mailed to a PO box back in Lawrence. Sam had the extra key and they were the only two with access authorization. Obviously, that hadn’t been a problem for John._

_Sam could feel the tremor that went through Dean as their father taunted him, “Nice, tidy sum you had there, Dean._ _I bet it could have covered at least two, maybe three semesters of a piss-poor college."_

_Sam tightened his grip on Dean. Dean’s hold on his temper was precarious, and a full-on fight wouldn’t do anything to settle matters. But if their father continued to push, Sam might let Dean have a go at him, if only to settle his own rage._

_“What’d you do with it, you son of a bitch?” Dean asked through clenched teeth._

_John’s glance slid to the dining area, where an assortment of guns and knifes, a police scanner, ammo, and a mess of unmarked boxes were stacked on the table. “It’s amazing what $6,000 can buy these days.”_

_Sam felt the harsh sting of tears in his eyes as he felt Dean’s dreams slip away. Dean’s grades weren’t good enough for a scholarship, and they didn’t have time for sports, so cash was the only way to pay for school. Without that, Dean was helpless._

_Sam lost his grip on Dean so fast, he barely registered the, “Fuck you,” Dean hissed before his brother launched an attack on their father._

_It was over before it got started. Dean had tried to body-tackle John, but their father was apparently expecting such a move. Bodies twisted quickly, and left John holding Dean with one forearm around his neck, pushing his chin up to put pressure on the windpipe. John’s other hand struggled to contain Dean’s arms and fists._

_“Dad…” Sam croaked out and instantly regretted it as John’s eyes bored into his. Control. Satisfaction. Assurance._

_He watched with growing, sickening dread as John leaned in and whispered to Dean, “I thought you had more sense than that, you selfish little bastard. What about Sammy?”_

_At that, Dean stopped struggling. His agonized gaze met Sam’s, worry and fear darkening the green to almost black._

_Sam couldn’t hide the worry he felt from Dean; worry he’d always felt when Dean talked about going away to college. Sam hadn’t been afraid of their father – until now. He’d have to endure the stupid quest for a few more years, then he could leave, too. It was only a few years; he could have survived it. But now, with that certainty emanating from John, he wasn’t so sure._

_John’s slick voice continued, “What happens when you go away, Dean? It’s just me and Sammy out there against all that evil. Are you going to leave Sammy to defend himself? Who’s going to watch his back when you’re gone?”_

_The implication that John would_ let _something attack Sam hung thick in the air, and Dean’s stunned expression probably matched Sam’s._

_Sam shook his head in denial, and was certain a whimper escaped as Dean stopped fighting their dad. He hung like a rag doll in their father’s arms, and even though Dean and John were nearly the same height, Dean looked so small. Sam had never seen him look so…lost._

_When John released Dean, it was with a shove, and Sam caught Dean as he stumbled. As Dean straightened, Sam saw the look in his eyes, and a denial slipped out, “No, Dean.”_ Not for me _, was bitten back, though, before it could be voiced._

_Dean stared at their father, all defiance gone as he relented. “Yes, sir.”_

The resigned look in Dean’s eyes was replaced with the hard stare of the mug shot beneath Sam’s fingertips. He traced the image with reverence, absently noting the still-short hair. Dean was just shy of thirty, but he looked so much older. Hard edge to his face, hard edge to his jaw, even a hard edge to the eyes staring back at him. Everything about the photo screamed _back the fuck off_ , so different from the twenty-one year old Dean he’d last known. 

He didn’t bother to look at the rest of the file, just said, “I need to see him,” and expected his boss to make it happen.

One good thing about Henry; he had an amazing talent for reading people. “I’ve arranged for you to consult with the accused, but you’re not getting the case.”

He almost gave himself whiplash, his head jerked up so fast. “But he’s –“

“Don’t,” Henry warned and it took a moment for Sam’s brain to catch up.

No connection between Sam and Dean had been made yet, only the identical last names. Plausible deniability wouldn’t go far with this case, especially if a power-hungry prosecutor saw a lucrative future in it. But they had to make it last as long as possible.

Sam stood, clutching the folder in a white-knuckled grip. He could make it to the precinct in fifteen minutes, barring any bad traffic.

“Go, son,” Henry ordered softly and Sam didn’t need to be told twice.

Walking to the garage had never taken so long, and as he slid into his car, the keys fell from his shaking fingers. “Damn it!” He searched around underneath the seat, found them, then jammed the key into the ignition. The hybrid hummed to life and he made his way quickly through the streets, toward Dean.

_Dean._ What the hell happened to his brother? Dean was supposed to go to college, the same as him. He was supposed to be some big-shot record producer. He wasn’t supposed to be impersonating officers and agents and God knows what else. And he most definitely was _not_ supposed to be carrying an arsenal of _thing-_ killing weapons in the trunk of a car. They had a plan; Sam’s plan.

_After graduation, Dean did as he was told. No more defiance, no more talking back. He played the part of the good little soldier until Sam was ready to puke or cry._

_Sam buried himself in schoolwork, unable to forget the look in Dean’s eyes when he used to speak of college, of being on his own, of doing something for himself. That selfishness had cost Dean dearly, but Sam had a plan. When Sam graduated, he was leaving for college, and he was taking Dean with him. In the between time, Sam became the defiant son, challenging John every chance he got while ignoring Dean’s wild-eyed panic._

_At sixteen, Sam got a near perfect score on the English part of the SAT. His guidance counselor pushed college pamphlets at him, not the local schools, but those for Ivy League colleges. Only one caught and held his attention: Stanford._

_“That one,” he told her, pointing at the glossy brochure. “What do I have to do?”_

_When Sam told Dean his plan, Dean paled. “No, Sam. You know what happened…”_

_“Dean,” Sam reasoned, some part of him sickened that he was pushing his older brother into doing something for himself. “We’ll both go. Dad can’t use us against each other if we’re both gone.”_

_“You don’t know what will happen if he catches us,” Dean said, a shudder going through him. “He’s been drinking a lot more this past year.”_

_“All the more reason for us to leave together, Dean. You didn’t leave me and I won’t leave you.”_

Sam slammed on the brakes a bit too hard as his stomach roiled. He rested his head on the steering wheel and took some calming breaths. The ride to the precinct had been lost in memories, but here he sat, in a familiar parking garage, the most uncertain he remembered being.

He slid into the mental space he needed to talk to the police, and showed his credentials to the desk clerk, then again at the holding area. He was directed to Interrogation Room #4 and the door was unlocked for him.

He stood out of the line of sight, wanting to steel himself for seeing his brother again after nearly ten years. He took a deep breath and stepped inside, keeping his eyes on the opened file. As he skimmed the list of charges and even more pending charges from reports from across the country, his stomach dropped. It wasn’t so much worry at seeing Dean again, as having to tell him that jail time was almost certain, and a federal trial loomed on the horizon. About the only thing not listed was treason, though he wouldn’t doubt a good prosecutor could get that added.

“Sammy.”

The old nickname said with such a rough, raw voice stopped him cold.

He saw Dean’s hands first, the wrists secured to the metal loop in the table by the plastic ties biting into his wrists, leaving white marks against the tanned skin. Indignation rose in his chest and he almost called for an officer before remembering himself. They’d found blood on the weapons in the false trunk – Dean was all but a murder suspect, they just needed to find the victim, or victims, to prove it. As per the law, Dean was wearing a police-issued jumpsuit, another guarantee against smuggled lock picks or weapons. The bright orange made his tan look that much deeper, or maybe it was dirt; it was hard to tell.

He couldn’t bring himself to look into Dean’s face, into his eyes, just yet. He tried to speak, tried to think what to say, but nothing felt _right._

The scratchy voice asked, “That’s what my dad used to call you, right? Sammy?”

Oh, _fuck_ no. Dean knew enough not to give anything away – cameras and mics were standard issue in interrogation rooms. When had Dean gotten to know the intricacies of holding procedure? Or, Sam thought as he glanced around, maybe Dean just used his eyes. He felt sheepish – cameras were prominently placed so the accused would understand they were being watched at all times. He _knew_ that.

And he still hadn’t answered Dean’s question. “Yeah, he did,” he croaked, unable to find any other words. He dropped into a chair to Dean’s left, letting the contents of the file folder scatter across the dull surface of the metal table. He had to start thinking of this as a normal criminal case, not his brother about to be sent away for three hundred years. He took a deep breath and launched into his expository introduction. “My name is Sam Winchester. I’m here as a consultant, gathering information for whomever will be assigned your case. Whatever you tell me will be held in the strictest of confidence…”

“No.”

Caught off-guard, Sam looked up, directly into Dean’s eyes. The hard edges were there, above the set jaw and lean features. But something…something beneath that, something _familiar_ , was forcing its way to the surface. A memory from a lifetime ago. Communicating with a look – speaking without words. He and Dean used to carry on full conversations in the twitch of a shoulder, the raised eyebrow, the cast of their gaze.

Now, Dean was staring intently at him, and he just couldn’t do it. It’d been _years_. How did Dean expect him to pick it back up like…?

_You know I don’t have a defense. The dead can’t testify. I won’t drag those I’ve helped into this. You’re all I have._

Dear God, was _that_ what Dean expected of him? He let his disbelief show, tried to convey how his hands were tied, he had to abide by the law; it was what he swore to do.

Muscles twitched on Dean’s face, around his eyes and mouth, and the clearly spoken, _You’re all I have_ hovered between them.

Sam had to look away, unable to deal with the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. How _dare_ Dean expect him to drop everything and help him? _He_ wasn’t the one still chasing ghosts and demons that may or may not exist. The older Sam got, the more he told himself it was all made up, that their mom probably committed suicide or something, and their father just couldn’t handle it. The building up of excessive drinking through the years certainly lent itself to an unhinged mind.

Sam had lost the weapons training and Latin lessons in the haze of unwanted memory. He forgot the days on the road and the nights in hotels with only Dean as company. He remembered books, and studying, and AP classes, and a full ride to Stanford. He remembered that night, ten years ago, the last time he’d spoken to Dean.

_“We need to separate, Sammy. To make sure Dad doesn’t trick one of us into finding the other, you need to agree not to contact me under_ any _circumstances.”_

_“Dean, that’s crazy. Dad wouldn’t…” but he knew Dad_ would. _He sighed. “Okay, we’ll lay low for awhile…”_

_“Not_ awhile _, Sam, indefinitely. I won’t take the risk of him using one of us against the other. Not again.”_

_He could see the resolve, the fear, in Dean’s eyes, and couldn’t argue against it. “All right,” he agreed. “Take care of yourself, Dean.”_

_The familiar grin flashed before Dean bragged, “Don’t I always?”_

Of everything he knew about Dean, _stupid_ was not something he ever associated with his brother. But here he sat, arms stretch taut before him, head tilted down, staring at a life in prison.

Sam just couldn’t reconcile the two: his brother in his memories and the man before him. He picked at the police file, shuffling paper, when a damning phrase caught his eye. “Occupation: independent consultant,” he announced flatly. “Isn’t that what your dad does?”

The soft accusation was under Dean’s tone. “It’s the family business.”

Cold fear shot down Sam’s spine at the familiar phrase. Dad had thrown that idiosyncrasy at them time and again to keep them in line, to keep them from questioning, to keep them from leaving. His throat was dry as he asked, “Didn’t I hear that you were going to college?”

If he thought Dean’s expression hard before, it was nothing compared to the mask it slipped into now. Completely emotionless, yet all the more accusatory for it, Dean replied, “In my second year, Dad had a hunting accident. I had to look after him for almost a year.”

A sharp, bright pain began in his heart and behind his eyes as he stared at this nearly 30-year-old Dean. The one who gave up his dream of college _twice_. The one who left college to care for their father, the same father who showed no remorse at threatening Sam to keep Dean at his side. He was certain that Dean hated their father as much as he did – _why_ did Dean go back? It made no sense.

“Why?” slipped out before he could stop it. At Dean’s quirked eyebrow, which sent another jolt of memory through him, he elaborated, “Why so long? Isn’t a year a bit excessive for a hunting accident?”

A cold, shark-like sneer curled Dean’s lip and dread from over a decade ago took hold of Sam.  “Due to…circumstances, Dad had some trouble finding me.” Dean’s voice slipped into sugar and sarcasm, just like dad, and Sam could taste bile at the back of his throat.  " _Thankfully,_ Dad had an extensive network of friends who were on the lookout for me and let me know of Dad’s condition. By the time I got there, Dad was already in a bad way. He needed some serious care, but because of insurance, couldn’t get even the VA’s help.”

“So you stayed with him,” Sam whispered hoarsely, trying to imagine John Winchester hurt so bad that he couldn’t get out of bed. The image just wouldn’t come.

“Didn’t have a choice,” Dean said lightly, warning bells going off in Sam’s head.

He locked gazes with Dean, saw the accusation there, the blame. God, what did John do? Threats? Guilt? Dean _had_ to know that Sam was out of their father’s reach. What could John have held over Dean to make him stay?

When Dean gave him the answer, it was all Sam could do not to throw up then and there.

“I was raised to believe family takes care of family. If I had a son, I know I’d want him to watch out for me.”

_Son_. Dean had a son. There was no other explanation, not for the cryptic answers, not for the accusation, not for John’s hold over Dean. John had threatened Dean’s _son_. Lawyer or not, Sam wanted to rip the bastard’s heart out and shove it down his throat.

“What-“ he choked on the words, fury and disgust warring for dominance. “What happened to him? Your dad?”

Dean cocked his head, and it was just a reflex but it _slammed_ Sam back into a random hotel room, in a random town, fighting with John about wanting to play some sport after school.

Dean couldn’t have shocked him more with his pronouncement: “Dead.” 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

An odd peace settled over Sam. He met his brother’s gaze calmly, a series of events discussed and agreed upon with barely a blink.

He had no cause to worry. No evidence existed. Dean would have made sure of that; if not for Sam, then for his own son.

It should have scared Sam, this feeling of no guilt or remorse. All he felt was a sense of justice. He quietly gathered the scattered papers and tucked them into the file, dexterous fingers slipping a paperclip underneath Dean’s hand.

He dammed up his feelings with each breath until he was able to stand and meet Dean’s eyes again. “I’ll consult with my firm and recommend someone for your case.”

Dean jerked his head in a nod and Sam could see some of the tension leave Dean’s arms.

He paused before knocking on the door. “It just occurred to me; your eyes.” Dean’s head tilted in curiosity and Sam allowed a small smile to curve his lips. “Well, your eye color…it’s a bit unusual. I only noticed it because it’s the same green as my daughter’s.”

Dean’s eyes widened slightly at that knowledge, that he had niece, the same look Sam probably had when he found out he had a nephew.

“Take care of yourself,” he said gruffly, and Dean’s head tilt answered, _I always do._

Sam drove back to the firm on autopilot, bypassing the normal corridors to his office. Once the door was shut and locked, he dry-heaved into the trashcan, then collapsed onto the floor by his desk.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Another knock at Interrogation Room #4 had Dean sitting up as straight as he could, half-bent over the table with his arms stretched toward the middle hook as he was.

An older man with brown-green eyes, gray hair and beard shuffled into the room. His cane made an off-beat to a steady walk, but the briefcase was set down gently. “Hello there, son. My name’s John Murphy, and I’ll be your attorney. Now, let’s see about getting you out of here.”

A sneer curled Dean’s lip and rage shone from his hard eyes. “Good to meet you, John.”

The police never could explain how the fire started, or how the recordings for Interrogation Room #4 were erased.

However, the manhunt for Dean Winchester began within the hour of his disappearance


	5. Upping the Stakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The FBI's Most Wanted List has a new #1.

Dean shoved at John until the older man slammed back against the brick wall. The alley was deserted and dark, and far enough away from the precinct that they could finish their business. 

Dean was still seeing red, the anger at having been forced to be captured with an arsenal in the trunk of John’s car nearly blinding him. He’d been done with this life; had managed to be free of it for almost ten years, and John fucking found him. Where had he slipped up? How could he have slipped up; he’d been so careful for so long, even explaining to Heather and her parents why Heather would take the name ‘Smithton’ as hers on their wedding day. They never told Heather’s parents the whole truth; running away from an abusive father was reason enough in their book and they never questioned him on his name or behavior again. If wide-eyed panic slammed him whenever he looked at his wife and son, they calmed him down and never pitied him. 

He and Heather had been talking about having another kid, for fucks sake! And then – and then, he’d found the envelope shoved under the door when he got home from work. A Polaroid – who the hell still used Polaroids? – of James with an all-too familiar face behind him, holding an arm across James’ shoulders. It looked casual, but Dean would never, ever forget the feel of that arm across his throat, choking the life out of him in more ways than one. 

Four days after that, John had appeared on their doorstep, and it took every ounce of self-control Dean had not to kill him on the spot. John had been unassuming, which kicked up Dean’s warning to full tilt. John was never unassuming. “Didn’t know I had a grandson. If I’d’a known, I would have brought a present for the kid.” 

“The only present I want for him is your heart on a plate,” Dean had snarled, shaking with rage. 

Now, in an alley near the police station that Dean had just been held in, John was smirking at him like they were on a frat prank, and not playing deadly games with real lives. 

John sneered back at him, steadying himself with the cane. “Easy there, boy. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.” 

He barely – barely – stopped himself from just beating the life out of John. “I want my son back.” 

“You’ll get your boy when I have Sam.” 

“What more do you want from me?” he cried, unable to hold back emotions that had threatened him for over a month. A month of not knowing where James was or what John had done to him. A month of trying to assure Heather that James would be fine, when he didn’t know that, himself. A month of agony that cumulated in John’s declaration that Dean get himself arrested and get Sam on his case, or who knew what might befall the cute little rascal. 

“I did what you wanted. Sam thinks you’re dead. He’ll be an easy target.” Even as he said it, Dean’s stomach turned. He hadn’t known Sam had a daughter, but it was either Sam’s life or his son’s, and Dean would be damned if he gave up his own son to save a brother who abandoned him. “Just give me my son back.” 

Silence stretched until Dean was shaking with nervousness, then John heaved a great sigh. “Oh, I suppose. It’s not like you can go back to that life now, anyway. You’re top of the Ten Most Wanted, after all.” With a sickly grin, John tossed a slip of paper in the air, landing at Dean’s feet. “See ya around, son.” 

Hands shaking, Dean unfolded the paper and took off at a dead run, heading toward the street scribbled in John’s handwriting. 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Sam’s keys slid from his numb fingers as he closed the door behind him. “Rach?” he called, his voice sounding hollow and meek to his own ears. “Allison?” 

A blur bumped into his legs and he swept Allison up in a huge hug, refusing to put her down even when Rachel caught them and started teasing. 

“Sam?” she questioned, when he didn’t respond to her teasing. When he looked at her with tears in his eyes, she wrapped her arms around him and their daughter. “What is it?” 

“My brother,” was all he could get out through the heart lodged in his throat in danger of choking him.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

When Dean reached the address, he didn’t hesitate to kick the door in and race through the rooms, calling his son’s name. “James!” 

“Dad!” 

Dean whipped his head to the left, body following until he skidded on his knees in front of James, chained to the wall by his ankle. 

“Dad,” James sniffed, though he was too old to cry. 

“It’s okay,” Dean answered gruffly, ignoring his own tears as he picked the lock on the ankle cuff and hauled James into his arms, burying his face in his son’s hair. He felt tight fists bunching his shirt against his shoulderblades. He carried James out of the house and walked at least two blocks before setting his son down and calling Heather. 

“I got him. He’s fine.” Her hysterical sobs tore at his heart. “Shh, it’s okay. Pack some clothes and meet us at my old apartment building. Heather, can you do that for me?” 

She hiccupped, but her voice was strong when she answered, “Yes.”

“Okay, see you in an hour.” He closed the phone and was about to pick James back up, when he pictured Sam going through the same thing he just did. He couldn’t let an innocent girl get caught up in their father’s sick games. With a deep breath, he thumbed through his cell until he got to the newest addition to his list. 

He cut off Sam’s greeting. “Don’t talk. Dad’s alive and after you. Get some things, get your daughter and get out of the city. Now.” 

He heard the indrawn breath, but knew that Sam was already calculating what his family would need over the next few days. But then, Sam asked hesitantly, “Is your –?”

Dean closed his eyes slowly as his heart began to return to a normal pace. “He’s good.” 

“Thank God,” Sam breathed. “Watch your back.” 

“Yeah,” he answered gruffly and hung up. He leaned down and checked James for marks or scars. “Did he hurt you at all, in any way?” 

James shook his head, his eyes still wide and wet. “No. Just put the chain around my ankle and gave me food sometimes. He asked me lots of questions about you and mom, but I didn’t want to tell him anything.” 

He crouched by his son now, hands soothing up and down his arms. “It’s okay if you did. We won’t be mad. We just wanted you safe. Let’s get your mom, okay? She’s sure missed you.” 

Hoisting his son onto his hip, Dean carried him to his old apartment building. 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Sam made two calls as he packed a bag; one to his boss, informing him he was taking leave immediately and for an indeterminate amount of time, and then to the police, alerting them to a suspicious person hanging around the neighborhood. It wasn’t hard to picture what John would look like today; alcohol and a rough life had probably made him craggy and much older than his years. Besides, Sam lived in a very nice neighborhood that had regular patrols; tightened security wasn’t that big of a deal. 

Convincing Rachel that they had to leave, now, proved much harder. “Rach, please. I never talked about my family because they’re crazy. My dad is on his way here, and he could harm Allison or you.” 

“You are out of your mind!” she hissed at him as she wrangled out of his grip. 

“I’ll take Allison myself. I won’t let him hurt her,” he muttered, storming into his daughter’s room and pulling a few outfits out of the drawers. 

“You’re not taking my daughter anywhere!” 

“I have to, Rach, so she’s safe. You don’t understand, my dad’s a drunk, a mean one, and he’s threatened me and my brother before. We have to leave now before he gets here.” 

“How do you even know he’s coming here?” she asked, even as she followed him from their daughter’s room to their bedroom. 

“I know, okay? He hasn’t changed much and he’s got a pattern of behavior. I’ve already called the police; hopefully they’re scanning the neighborhood. We’ll stay at a hotel for a few nights, until I can find us a safe place to stay.” 

“My God, you’re serious,” she muttered, staring at him in shock. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, kissing her quickly before he hauled their suitcases down to the foyer. 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Dean set his son down as he spotted Heather just inside the apartment building’s door. James made a beeline for her and leapt into her arms. 

“Mommy!” 

“Baby!” Heather was on her knees, clutching their son as if she’d never let him go and Dean’s heart fell to his feet. He knew then that he couldn’t stay, not with the police after him. He wouldn’t put them at risk, ever again. 

As he was gathering the courage to say goodbye to Heather, she stood and slapped him across the face, then hugged him fiercely. “Don’t you dare leave us,” she declared into his neck. “I know you; you’re going to leave to protect us. Well, I won’t let you.” She pulled back and kissed him just as intensely as she’d slapped him. “We’ll go to the police and tell them everything. They’ll believe…”

“Heather, they caught me in John’s car, full of weapons and fake IDs I’ve never even seen. They’ll never believe me over him.” 

“We’ll make them believe you. You’re innocent in all this. It’s time to stop running away, Dean. We’ll face this together and we’ll see him rot in jail.” Her voice got shaky as she spit out, “He kidnapped our son! If the law doesn’t deal with him, I will.”

He started to reason, “I can’t,” then caught the look James was giving him. 

He was still scared, didn’t understand what had happened the past month, but the kid had a damn quick mind. “It’s not your fault, Dad,” James said, his voice small but determined. “He’s a bad man,” referring to John. “He should be in jail.” 

And that, right there? Dean knew he’d never, ever be able to leave his son. Not for anything. Blinking back tears, he gathered his strength and nodded at Heather. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” 

“Are you?” She countered as she studied his face, which he felt growing warm. She was searching out all his fears, asking him to make a choice, once and for all. His past, or his future, and everything, everything, depended on his belief in himself. He may still go to jail for his earlier days of scamming, but it wouldn’t be the life – or death – sentence he had hanging over his head now. 

He held out his hand to his son. “Let’s go.” 

=-=-=-=-=-=

Sam’s grip tightened on his keys as he slammed the trunk lid closed. Another patrol car slipped around the corner, but did little to ease his fear. John could be anywhere and he wouldn’t know until it was too late. Senses still on high alert, he guided Rachel and Allison to the car, locking them in securely as he pulled out into the street. He followed the path of the patrol car, keeping it in sight until he was close enough to a main artery to get lost in traffic. 

=-=-=-=-=-=

Feeling like this was the stupidest idea in the world, Dean gripped Heather’s hand as they walked up the steps to the police station, James in front of them. He was surprised that he hadn’t been knocked to the ground already, but they were actually inside the station and at the desk before someone recognized him. 

He smiled wanly. “Yeah, I’m Dean Winchester, and I’m here to turn myself in. This is my wife, Heather, and my son, James. I’d appreciate you watching out for them. John Winchester, my father, had kidnapped our son and was threatening him unless I did exactly as he said.”

The cop stared at him in shock, not even reaching for his gun. Dean took that as a good sign and continued. “I’d like to see a DA or lawyer, to tell my side of the story. It’s going to be long, so I really would appreciate you protecting my family. My father is insane and he will make a move against them, I promise you.” Unbidden tears came to his eyes again but he shook them off. “Just, don’t let anyone in to see them, please? I don’t think John had anyone working with him, but I can’t be sure.” 

The cop’s gaze went across the three of them, and slowly he shook his head as he rose from the desk and toward Dean. 

Immediately, Dean dropped Heather’s hand and held out his arms, palms up and open to show he had nothing in them. He didn’t miss the falter in the cop’s step and flinched as metal cuffs were snapped on him. “Please, keep them safe,” he begged again, catching and holding the cop’s gaze. He felt cold sweat trickle down his back and shivered, not even the squeeze of Heather’s hand on his shoulder enough to stop the cold dread from filling him. 

“Come with me,” said the cop gruffly. “We’ll put you in an interrogation room until I can talk to my boss.” 

“Thank you,” Dean breathed, ready to follow the cop willingly. Heather’s hand on his arm stopped him from moving, however. 

“I’m not leaving him,” she informed the cop, glaring in her intense way. Even James had a determined look on his face. “The last time we were apart, our son was kidnapped. I’m not taking any chances. We all go together and we stay together.” She pulled out the envelope Dean knew contained the Polaroids that John had taken. “This is the man you’re looking for.” 

The cop’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “These look like regular pictures to me. Like a granddad with his grandson or something.” 

Dean hated what he was about to say, but he knew they didn’t have time on their side. “James, show the policeman your leg.” 

Heather’s head whipped around so hard Dean winced in sympathy. “You said he wasn’t hurt!” 

“It’s okay, mom,” said James, as he pulled up his pant leg and showed the cop the ugly bruising around his ankle. “That man had me chained to a wall for a month. He fed me but he didn’t let me go home. He wanted to know all about mom and dad. I wouldn’t tell him, though.” 

Heather had tears running down her face. “Oh, baby,” she crooned as she grabbed James in a tight hug. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t find you.” 

Some of the suspicion began to leave the cop’s hard exterior. “Okay, folks, let’s get you all into a room and I’ll get the DA on the phone immediately.” 

It wasn’t until they were safely locked in an interrogation room that Dean allowed his shaky legs to collapse him into a chair. It was going to be a very long night. 

=-=-=-=-=-=

Sam drove them to Beverly Hills of all places and picked one of the not-as-nice hotels to pull up to. Rachel was still pale beside him, but followed him to the front desk where he asked for a suite. He paid an extra $500 and asked that no one, absolutely no one be allowed in their room, or even told that they were there. Sam had let Rachel pick their alias, as he didn’t want any residual memories coming up with something that John might remember them using. 

Even in the secured building inside the secured room, Sam still didn’t feel safe. He wouldn’t feel safe until John was caught or dead for good. 

=-=-=-=-=-=

“Why didn’t you come to the police as soon as you realized your father had taken your son?” asked the DA, much to Dean’s annoyance. 

“Did you read the list of what was in the car I was caught in? That was all my dad’s shit. Do you think I wanted to cross him? Do you think I would risk my son’s life against that maniac?” He shook his head. “I know you don’t understand, but I had to do whatever he said.” 

The lady DA, flanked by three other lawyers, flicked through her papers again. When the cop had said he’d call the DA, he wasn’t kidding. Within fifteen minutes, the knock had come at the door and Dean had been answering questions ever since. Dean had refused a lawyer, stating he was coming clean with his entire life and would take whatever punishment the law saw fit. That had drawn a hysterical fit from Heather and saw her escorted out of the room along with James.

That actually made it easier for Dean to tell his life’s story. “You got your recorder going? Because I probably won’t be able to repeat this. I’ll be lucky getting through it once,” he admitted, sorrow cracking his voice. All he’d wanted was a normal life and this is where he’d ended up. “You see, my dad was pretty messed up after mom died. The way she died, anyway. I don’t know if you can get records for Lawrence, Kansas, but if you look up a house fire back in November 1983, you’ll get the start of the story.” 

He rambled on about his childhood, how he took care of his little brother, how their dad took them all over the country and had them in and out of schools most of their lives, and the things they did to earn money. At least he hadn’t been old enough to take out any credit cards with his own signature; that was something he’d refused to do, even after John’s threat against Sam. The only fake ID he had was the one he’d been using the past 10 years. The stealing and hustling, though, that was on him, even if he’d been forced into it. He glossed over the part where he left John and escaped to Houston; they’d be able to track him with his fake identity from there. “Gary Smithton,” he repeated to them, and his Social. “You can check my work records at Sanderson’s and Wallingford’s Construction in Houston, as well as my marriage certificate and apartment contract here. I’ll even give a DNA test to prove James is my son; whatever you need from me, I’ll give it. Just keep my family safe from that monster.” 

His audience had been breathless – or speechless – during his monologue, but he couldn’t tell if they believed him. 

Finally, one of the lawyers, a woman of maybe 35, cleared her throat and checked down at her papers. “You’re admitting to fraud and theft.” 

He swallowed his bitterness. “Absolutely.” 

“But not to murder or any of the other charges previously brought against you.” 

“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll take what punishment I deserve for what I’ve done, but only for what I’ve done. I’ve never killed a living person. Just – things. Monsters. Whatever you want to call them. I’ve got scars to prove I’ve been in fights; I nearly lost the use of my arm, once. The only forgery I participated in was the one I needed to get away. But I haven’t touched any of that in over ten years. Not since I ran away. Just check my story, please? Surely the schools we attended have records to prove we were there? How often we moved? I gave you all the aliases I can remember; I’m sure there were more.” He wanted to rub his head, but his hands were attached to the metal loop in the table again. He rattled the handcuffs irritably. “Look, I know it was a fucked-up life, okay? Just – keep my family safe. Please.” 

The DA’s lips had been pursed the whole time listening to his story, and only now did she speak. “The FBI will take Mrs. Smithton and James to a safe house.”

He closed his eyes and breathed, “Thank you.” 

Her voice was oddly sympathetic as she laid the bombshell on him: “I can’t guarantee you’ll ever see them again. It depends on what we turn up and if your story checks out. They may only get to see you at trial. Do you want a chance to say good-bye?” 

The bottom fell out of his stomach, but he didn’t hesitate. Their safety was worth it even if he never saw his son or Heather again. “No. It’ll be too much for me; for them. Heather knows some of what my life was like; she understood me leaving her before. She’ll understand this.” He licked his lips and shook his head. “I love my son, lady. I didn’t even know he existed until four years ago, and now I can’t image my life without him. I’ll do whatever you tell me, just so he’s safe.” 

The other lawyers started shuffling in their seats as his declaration, but the DA just stared intently at him, as if she was trying to read him. He stared back, not sure what she was looking for, but unable to hold anything back. 

The other lawyers were standing and walking out the door, leaving him and the DA in an odd staring match. 

The DA nodded and gathered her things. “I’ll notify the FBI as soon as I step out of here, Mr. Winchester. We’ll keep you locked up in solitary until the FBI can move you, too.” 

He sat up at that. “Move me? Where?” 

“You’ll be taken to a separate safe house, as a precaution. Until we verify your story, our number one priority is locating John Winchester for questioning.” Her smile was anything but pleasant.

He was beyond dumbfounded. He was flat-out confused. “What?” 

An odd smile crossed the DA’s features. “You don’t remember me, I know, but I remember your family.” 

His mouth ran dry. “What?” he croaked. 

“It was fall of 1992. There was a monster stealing kids from their beds and keeping them in a cage in a dark, wet basement. At times it looked human, but when it didn’t it was hideous. Twisted, somehow.” 

A memory started to stir in Dean’s head. 

“Dover, Oklahoma. Population barely 500, so it was a shock when kids went missing. The local LEOs hadn’t a clue what was going on. Neither did we.” 

And in Dean’s eye, he could see the huddle of scared kids, some nearly as old as he was. He still heard their screams for their parents, even as he picked the lock and helped them escape while Dad had taken care of the freaky-looking monster. Sammy had been tucked away at the motel with a shotgun, safe from the monster at least. The kid’s faces had been a blur as he led them out of the basement. 

The woman before him didn’t ring any bells, but she gave him a trembling smile and said, “We couldn’t thank you then, we were so scared. You left before our parents showed up to claim us, or even the police. You just got in that big, black car with your father and drove off.” Her smile wavered even more as tears filled her eyes. “Thank you for saving my life, Dean.” 

He gaped at her as she left him alone in the interrogation room, wondering if his life was about to be turned upside down yet again or if he was about to be granted absolution. 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=

The police had sent out alerts and pictures of John Winchester in a 50-mile radius from Sam Winchester’s house, and now the alert went statewide. Further, actually, as Nevada and the Mexican border were also put on high alert. Dean Winchester may have briefly been in the top ten of the FBI’s Most Wanted, but John Winchester was Enemy #1. 

John didn’t know that, of course. He’d been lying low all his life, taking care to cover his tracks and not leave evidence behind. But he had. Every time he enrolled his sons in school, a paper trail followed him. Every time he applied for a new credit card, his aliases drew the attention of the FBI, but they were always two steps behind. 

Handwriting experts had been brought in to compare all the fraudulent credit card slips to the fake IDs that had been found in the black Chevy that wasn’t actually Dean Winchester’s car. Evidence was mounting quickly, now all they had to do was actually catch the slippery fucker. 

The patrol car ambled down Sam Winchester’s street again, but reported nothing out of the ordinary. Luckily, when the FBI had been called in, they’d set up in a neighbor’s house and were watching and waiting for the man walking with the cane to approach the Winchester’s house. 

When the man didn’t use the front door and went straight to the back, the FBI surrounded him. The cold smile on John Winchester’s face as he was handcuffed and tucked into the back of the van caused more than one of the agents to shudder. 

=-=-=-=-=-=

Sam was anxiously pacing the hotel room when a noise from Rachel drew his attention to the TV. She had been watching with the sound low, but now turned it up so he could ear. 

“…Winchester has just been taken into custody by the FBI. The FBI aren’t saying what John Winchester is accused of, only stating that he was on their radar “for years” and they’d finally gotten a break on the case. We’ll break in with any new developments in this story. Again, One of the FBI’s Most Wanted has been brought into custody tonight…” 

Sam dropped to the couch next to Rachel. “Thank God,” he whispered. 

“It’s over now, right?” she asked, though her tone suggested she knew it was only beginning.

He took her hand and squeezed it between his own. “I’ll make sure he never sees the light of day again.”


	6. Friends in High Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's life has been a rollercoaster with incredible ups and downs, but it's all coming to a close. He can almost breathe again. Almost.
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains a m/f sex scene.

Three months. 

That’s how quickly the FBI gathered all their evidence from across the country, for the handwriting experts to make their case that yes, all of the aliases used over the years were forged by the same person; that the fake ID badges were also forged by the same person, and that person was not Dean Winchester, but in fact, his father. 

Added to the charges were the convenience store security tapes that showed John Winchester stealing cash or gas or food, though evidence against Dean also came forth in that damning footage. For years, security camera footage from banks, hotels, motels, gas stations, restaurants and schools had been gathered and now was presented as evidence that John Winchester had been the one to perpetuate the crimes, not his sons. 

To Dean’s shock, even the hospital records from his stay after having his arm nearly ripped off came to light, showing that he’d been gravely injured and false insurance papers had been presented to get him into the ER and stitched up. Hospital security tapes had shown a pissed-off John with an unconscious, bleeding Dean in the ER waiting room. 

Hell, they’d even found a few shots taken from traffic cameras of the Chevy racing through red lights.

The Federal prosecutors threw everything they had at John and nearly all of it stuck. The arraignment had been swift and the trial started within a month. The defense of insanity was removed from the table by the judge on the first day, stating that any man that meticulous about covering his tracks was clearly in his right mind to do so. 

Dean vibrated in place, awaiting his turn to offer testimony. The feds had explained what they expected of him and he wasn’t nervous about that; it was about facing John again. He knew that his testimony was damning, but was it enough? Dean couldn’t take the risk of John going free, or being released from prison after only a few years. He wouldn’t be able to sleep if the man walked; he was barely sleeping now. 

He also hadn’t seen Heather or James in those three months, and while it had been necessary at the time, it tore at his heart just thinking about them. He’d given up Heather for the second time in his life and he wasn’t sure if he’d survive this one. 

Then to his utter shock, James was brought in from a side door and escorted to the stand. Dean could feel the anger coursing through John and was halfway out of his seat before his handler – or whatever he was supposed to be – pulled him back down. “Stay calm. Don’t give him the satisfaction.” 

James’ voice was shaky, but loud enough to be heard without the mic while he gave his testimony. Dean’s heart swelled with pride at how calm James seemed, even when pointing out John as the man who kidnapped him. 

When Heather emerged from the same side door, he couldn’t help but notice how she practically glowed. She was wearing a flowy dress and he blinked at her posture, trying to pinpoint what was different about her. She looked healthy enough – eyes bright as they searched the courtroom and landed on his, and he knew – he sucked in a gasp and sat straight up in his seat. She was pregnant. 

Her smile and nod was confirmation enough, and he knew he was grinning like a fool. Even as she was sworn in, he couldn’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his head. Her words were a blur but he soaked up her tone, the rise and fall of her voice, mesmerizing as it had always been. 

His handler shoved an elbow into his side and caught him up to speed with what she’d testified to so far: confirmation of James’ testimony and to prove the Polaroids and envelope were evidence. 

Then it was Dean’s turn. He felt John’s stabbing, cold gaze as he mounted the small steps and swore on the Bible that he’d tell the truth. And tell it he did, from every insane monster chase to every head slap to every empty bottle. He was sweating by the time he was done, and the shadows had lengthened in the room; he’d been talking for hours and had gone through two bottles of water. 

The defense attorney really didn’t have anything against him, but tried his best. Dean just smiled at him as the guy tried to trip him up. 

“Mr. Winchester, are you denying that you were involved in your father’s fraudulent schemes?”

“Nope. I wasn’t involved in all of them, but I participated. I thought I had no choice; I was protecting my little brother.” He shrugged to accompany his words. He’d already talked to the DA and they’d worked out a deal; he was going to be brought up on his own charges once the outcome of his trial was decided. His charges would largely depend on what they could nail John with. Dean was okay with that. The most they had on him was fraud, a fake Social Security number and petty theft; he’d gladly do time for those if it kept him away from the more serious charges that John was facing. 

The defense attorney didn’t have any tough questions after that, and Dean was excused for the day. Once outside the court, he immediately pulled at the knot at his throat. “Stupid ties,” he muttered as his eyes scanned automatically for Heather and James. It was pointless; he knew. He hadn’t seen them before they testified, and he wouldn’t see Sam when he was brought in for his testimony, tomorrow. The FBI was keeping them all separated in order to protect them. 

Everything had changed, though, once he saw Heather. He had a kid on the way and he wasn’t going to abandon Heather again. Not when he could help it. He pleaded with the federal prosecutor, “She’s pregnant and I have to be there. I wasn’t there for her with James and you can’t keep me from her now.” 

“You know I can’t do that,” the prosecutor sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing the back of his hand against his eyes. “We’ve been through this. Keeping you apart is what’s keeping them safe.” 

“How long will this trial last, huh?” he asked as he paced the cramped office. “I can count; Heather’s at least five months along, possibly six. She needs me. I can’t be away from her for God knows how many more months. Or years.” 

“She’s being given the best medical treatment…”

He slammed his fist on the desk. “I need to be there for her. Why is that so hard to understand? You know what my childhood was like. You’ve seen what my son’s had to deal with. Are you honestly going to sit there and let another childhood go in the crapper?”

The guy slipped on his glasses and picked up his phone. “Let me see what I can do.” 

=-=-=-=-=-=

Dean was reunited with Heather and James in Pittsburgh three days after his talk with the federal prosecutor’s office. 

He’d been holed up in a hotel room with Heather the entire day, lavishing her with attention. 

“I’m sorry you have to get another name,” he murmured into Heather’s stomach, planting kisses over the slight swell of their unborn child. 

She giggled and ruffled her hands through his hair. “That tickles. And I don’t mind taking another last name.” She pulled his head up and kissed him soundly, distracting him until her hand curled around his hardened cock and sent him arching against her. “Winchester was the name I always wanted, anyway.” 

“Shit,” he gasped as she rolled onto her side and he settled behind her. He’d almost taken notes at his first doctor’s visit with Heather about their unborn child, but he’d learned everything he needed to know: she and the baby were healthy, and how to have safe sex during pregnancy. Turned out he didn’t need notes; Heather had everything memorized once they found out they were going to be together again. He entered her carefully, feeling the press of her fingers against the back of his neck as he began to thrust gently, more teasing than arousal.

Her growled, “Move, Winchester, or you won’t get this sweet ass until a year after the baby’s born,” caused him to shove deep into her and he swore as sweat dripped into his eyes. 

She arched back against him, her head against his shoulder and he twisted to place a kiss against her mouth. His hand supported her stomach, though he knew he didn’t need to, but a sudden movement beneath his hand caused both of them to freeze. 

“Oh, my God,” he breathed, at the same time Heather whispered, “She moved.” 

“She moved,” he repeated blankly as his hand caressed her stomach, smooth skin stretched taut. “She?” he asked as he realized what Heather had said. 

Her hand covered his on her stomach. “I don’t know, but I’m hoping for a girl.” She sounded nervous, as if he’d ever, ever not love a girl as much as he’d loved James, and he said so.

“He, she, it; as long as it’s a healthy baby I don’t care what it is,” he murmured against the skin of Heather’s throat. “You know I’ll love it because it’s ours.” He laced their fingers together over her stomach and murmured, “Heather Rolsen, will you take me, Dean Winchester, as your husband?” 

She burst into laughter and twisted around to kiss him. “You oaf, of course I’ll marry you again.” 

He gently took her hand out of his hair and ran a hand down her arm. “No, not again. This is the first time that Dean Winchester’s had a chance to ask you to marry him, and he’s taking it. Gary Smithton doesn’t exist; our marriage doesn’t exist. You’ve never been married and neither have I.” Even as he said it, he had tears running down his face that matched Heather’s. “It’s a new start for all of us.” He couldn’t help the short laugh that escaped. “Your parents can even have that big church wedding they wanted for all their friends.” 

“Fuck waiting,” Heather declared adamantly, startling him. “We’re talking to the courts first thing tomorrow about the marriage license and whatever else we need. We’re getting married as soon as the paperwork clears, you hear me?” 

He could feel his grin stretching his cheeks. “Yes, ma’am.” 

She nodded decisively. “Now, get back to fucking me good and proper, or I swear you’ll wake up with blue balls for the rest of your damn life.” 

He tried to be gentle, but she was so damn possessive, fingertips digging into his skin, hands pulling him deeper that he couldn’t help but shove into her with a snap of his hips. Her breath hitched a few times and he knew she was there; he had the presence of mind to blindly seek out her mouth before she let loose with the scream he’d felt building. 

The late afternoon sun highlighted their sweaty bodies and her panting quietly in front of him. He wrapped both arms around her, just at the top of her belly, and he’d never felt more at peace. 

She drifted to sleep not long after that, and Dean felt the same pull. 

Because Dean’s fake ID was, well, fake, they didn’t need to present a divorce decree. Just to be safe, Dean had even checked with the DA just to be sure. They were married three days later in a small church (it had taken them awhile to find one that wasn’t horribly tacky yet would still do a ceremony on the fly), as James stood between them. Their witnesses were no more than the wife of the reverend and a friend of hers, but the names they signed on the certificate were their own. Dean’s hand shook as he signed his real name on the real certificate at their real wedding. Not that the last few years had been fake, but now there was nothing that could take any of this away. 

When he kissed Heather, he heard James say, “Ew, gross.” 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Sam hadn’t been allowed to participate in the trial in any way other than witness. It was too compromising. That didn’t stop him from glaring at John as he walked into the courtroom or seething quietly that he couldn’t guarantee that John would be put away for life. 

He told as much as he could remember of his childhood, how they’d traveled and been in more schools than he could count. He’d only been a baby when their mom died, so he couldn’t help Dean’s testimony in that regard. He hadn’t been threatened directly by John, so he couldn’t help Dean there, either. He was frustrated, but did his best to answer truthfully. The defense had nothing on him, really, so he was released after a few hours. 

Unfortunately, that just meant going back the safe house to wait for the trial to be over. At least he had Rach and Allison with him. 

Sam was in the courtroom when John’s verdict came in. Guilty, guilty and more guilty. Sam had tried before to calculate just how many counts of everything would add up to in years in jail, but couldn’t. Soon, though, he had has answer. 

John’s criminal trial ended fourteen weeks after it started. With barely a defense, other than “saving the world from monsters,” he was sentenced to 70 counts of credit card fraud, 127 counts of criminal impersonation, 153 counts of forgery, criminal possession of weapons, illegal concealment of weapons, criminal possession of a forged instrument and forgery devices, one count of kidnapping, one count of child endangerment, and a handful of other criminal charges that totaled to $1.2 million in damages and 235 years in jail to be served consecutively. 

Sam slid open his Blackberry and dashed off a quick text, not sure his voice would hold. He left the courthouse with the reporters and journalists, who were all dashing to call or text in the verdict before the five o’clock news. 

When he got to the safe house, Rach was already packed. “Let’s go home,” he said, picking her up and twirling her around the room. 

=-=-=-=-=

Apparently all of Dean’s lawyers had talked to one another or something, because when his family was sent back to Hastings, they were given a house key. 

Dean just blinked at it. “I don’t get it. I thought everything that was ‘Gary Smithton’ was history.” 

The original DA, the woman he’d rescued when both of them were much younger, smiled at him. “The bank has drawn up new mortgage papers for you both to sign. What you’ve paid toward the house the past few years will be allowed against the new mortgage. All the utilities will need to be turned on in your name. You’ll need to talk to your boss, though, Dean. We’re not miracle workers.” 

He stared at her, jaw agape. “You did this for me?” He couldn’t stop that insecure voice from asking, “Why?” 

She rolled her eyes and Dean sent her an annoyed look.

“Part of your testimony deal was that you’d dissolve anything that had to do with Gary Smithton, but we couldn’t leave you without a home to return to. Not with another little one on the way. Besides, you saved my life, Dean. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. Don’t you get it? Despite your dad being a drunken ass, he was doing some good out there. I’m just sorry it took your mom’s death to get him started, and that it twisted something in him that should have been more about his sons than revenge. I can’t hate him, though I know you do.” Her gaze slid to James and her tone softened. “I can hate what he turned into.”

To Dean’s surprise, she squeezed his shoulder. “Get on with your life, Dean. You deserve to live it without looking over your shoulder.” 

“Yeah,” he mused, toying with the key in his hand. Despite himself, he asked, “What about Sam?” 

“From what I understand, he’s moved back into his house, too. Don’t forget, this was just the criminal trial. John has a butt-load of civil trials coming up. We’re going to consolidate as many as we can so they move faster. He’s never getting out of jail, I promise you that.”


	7. The Next Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's life is settling down and he couldn't be happier. Well, maybe he could.

Dean jerked in his seat as a booming voice announced, “Congratulations to the Class of 2016!”

He whistled with two fingers, a piercing sound that echoed over the screams of the newly graduated senior class. The Winchester family stayed near their seats, not wanting to push their way through the crush of parents and friends trying to get to the graduates.

They didn’t have to wait long before James’ dark head was bobbing toward them. Heather stepped forward first, grabbing their son in a crushing grip and kissing his cheek.

“Mooom,” James drawled, embarrassed, yet still with a smile on his face.

“It’s what we do, honey,” Heather assured him as she wiped the bit of lip-gloss off his cheek.

Dean’s face hurt from smiling so hard. His son, _his son_ , had graduated high school with a football scholarship. It wasn’t to a Big 10 school, but it was decent enough, and he couldn’t be prouder. He was prepared to settle for a manly hug, as James had taken to calling them the past few years, but was surprised when James clung to him, just the briefest of moments.

“Hey, kiddo, what’s up?” he murmured into his son’s hair.

James pulled back and made a show of adjusting his gown. “Just – thanks for being there, Dad. I know – I remember. How you almost weren’t.”

He felt Heather clutch his hand, but couldn’t think of a thing to say. Thankfully – maybe – Joanne piped up with, “Hey, bitchface!” and distracted them all from the overly-girly moment.

“Hey, jerkwad,” James teased his little sister.

Dean laughed as James reached out to mess with Joanne’s hair and she squealed and ducked behind her mother. He felt Heather’s head resting against his shoulder and he squeezed her hand, just because he could.

James would be living in the converted loft above the garage while he attended college, thereby giving Joanne the bigger room. Even though James would technically still be living with them, it would be strange to see an empty room in the house. Dean must have made a noise, as he felt Heather place a kiss against the corner of his mouth.

“Hmm?”

“You’re awfully quiet for a proud pappa,” she teased, indicating James as they lost sight of him among his friends. 

“Just thinking, is all.”

The noise Heather made indicated her disbelief, and he sneakily tickled her side, causing a burst of laughter from her. “Stop that!”

“Make me,” he taunted as he rounded to attack both her ticklish sides at once.

“You’ll scare the baby,” she declared softly.

He froze. He blinked. His stare became one of shock. “What?”

“You were thinking of Joanne’s old room, weren’t you? How empty it would feel; how strange it would be?” Her face bloomed into the most radiant Dean had seen in over a decade, and he matched her smile. “Guess we got lucky, because it’s going to be filled in about seven months.”

He felt like he was gaping like a fish. “But – the doctor said –“

Her arms slid around his neck and his hands immediately went to her waist, drawing her closer. “He said it was _possible_ I wouldn’t be able to conceive at my age. Guess the old Winchester genes don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

He cursed his brain for running through the practicalities: he had planned to buy the local music store that he managed next year. That would have to be put off indefinitely. Then there were the everyday needs of a baby; they’d have to buy all new things as they’d given most of Joanne’s stuff away. Late night feedings and teething and crappy diapers –

A smile that matched your own –

The first time they said, “I love you” without prompting –

The first day of kindergarten –

“Dean? You still with me?”

Heather sounded worried; how long had he been lost inside his head? He picked her up – slightly – and kissed her nose. “I’m with you, babe,” he murmured. “Never gonna leave you.”

They both burst into laughter as they heard Joanne’s, “Ew, gross.”

The End


End file.
